Are we but bodies that simply feed,
alone together in raging need?
Is life so precious as a stone,
cause its found sinking
(in ends) and white of bone?
Are we but mind-spills in the dark
Stumbling through the Subsist;
life, but an arbitrary lark?
Is Lethe a blessing;
a memory unscathed?
Or is it cursed cruelly
not knowing the Named?
A flash of life, that Death reprieved;
a burst of being escaping grieve.
Then back down in, back in the grave;
back to the end-start, cowering brave
Eating the dark and shunning the beam
alone in the Un-Being,
down in Deaths regime.














Comments
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"Those who can't hear the music think the dancers are insane." - Lord Templeton
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