Wasted Wisdom

Live lots of life,

sprinkling lessons in a jar.

Let them simmer for decades.

They’ll reach new heights of umami.

After 50 years, dispense your wisdom at will.

Your crystalline entity shall never go nil.

⁛

When someone comes, pluck a premium jewel.

Watch as they clutch their neck—

strangulation of what they fear.

In being a divine human,

there’s one thing to know.

Never tell them, “I told you so.”

⁛

Fine flecks of facts form earth’s new layer,

rolled into circles in decreasing order.

Dear new-age Cassandra,

great wisdom to know:

Never look them in the eye and say,

“I told you so.”

⁛

Incite intrigue and loathing without sin.

Remain a consultant to fools with no end.

Stay tucked away, you, chosen of Omelas.

Bashed heads on walls are proof of your perfection.

Stains of insanity replace clear complacency.

Thrashing in guilt and filth,

never remind them “I you told you so,” dear.

⁛

Now take all your wisdom.

Tie it with a bow.

Throw it in a river.

Let the madness flow.

Send a subtle summons that the truth is free,

as influencers sell six-figure snake oil with glee.

When they come seeking alternative advice,

and they will—think twice.

Glance an “I told you so” ever so nice.