The Liturgy of the Last Granary

Upon the threshold of the sterile, white-tiled sanctum,
Where the fluorescent firmament hums a low, electric dirge,
The mundane pedestrian undergoes a transmogrification,
A metamorphosis from the civility of the urban dirge.
They cross the liminal boundary of the automatic gate,
No longer seekers of the ephemeral or the sweet,
But harbingers of an imagined, approaching fate,
With atavistic rhythms in their frantic, pacing feet.
Behold the acolytes of the impending, phantom dearth!
They traverse the labyrinthine aisles of the mercantile vast,
Driven by a subterranean, existential worth,
As if the shadows of the eschaton were being cast.
The metal chariots, their rolling vessels of greed,
Clatter against the linoleum with a dissonant sound,
Collecting the artifacts of a desperate, primal need,
While the specter of oblivion stalks the hallowed ground.
In the canyon of tin, where the canned provender lies,
They engage in a ritual of manic, frantic sequestration,
With a fevered brilliance in their hollow, searching eyes,
A frantic, unreasoned, and desperate accumulation.
These metallic sarcophagi, sealed against the rot,
Are gathered like relics from a lost and holy age,
As if the sanctity of the pantry could avert the lot
Of