how dull

By what nefarious magic have I outlived both Jesus Christ and F. Scott Fitzgerald,
 my two most obvious spiritual forebears?
Through what dark dealings did I extend my time on this
 oft underwhelming orb? I recall no incantations nor blood ritual.

Perhaps not decaying bargain but heavenly purpose keeps me
 astride the precipitating maw that consumes the lot of us,
 but to that them or those ends first I must shed
 the tedious burdens of mere subsistence,
 the everyday horseshit of and from hand-to-mouth;

Them ends, to them ends,
 until we ends them, it's the devil's playground we yawn and toil in,
 lousy to remember the old story always, cast out of freedom,
 thusly how dull the demiurge made us.