Forced to draw conclusions of animism,
reality obfuscates into double meaning
and nothing material can prepare me
for what once fruit-driven will become:
unintentional systematic masochism
brought to life by once trusty neurons
who must have been replaced by scabs:

a tormentful theory for me to poop on,
yet which despite me prevails unstained
but for the armchair psychiatrists who,
inference makers though they might be,
if ever found engrossed in fieldwork,
do trust covert to become my brethren
in a movement today that cannot stand.

Once trust in fellow man fell off the cliff,
despite the vainful concern of healers,
with only the crippled do the fallen unite.