Our Holy Grail

A myth we can't read.
Need our hands to knead.

Swiftly scour the pressed pages of epochal egos for bright stars only to find insipid crumbs rebaked in kilns of waning thoughts of sadness and madness striking souls no longer but downgraded to academic.

Need our hands to knead
A myth we can't write,
Need our young to bite.

Trepidly taint the leaves of overgrown trees in the burning of the midnight oil perchance these woefully wound words won't whittle with the dumbfounded desperation of prodigals seeking meaning offering meaning.

Need our young to bite
A myth we can't teach,
Need ourselves to breach.

Although the seductive splendour of the world taps at the stained-glass window of pretending pantheons faking clairvoyance of curious minds a wanton whisper beckons sighing cynicism at seeking our Holy Grail.

A myth.