We are not shadows on the wall,
What light reaches us passes through,
Yet, which is more insubstantial,
The shadows so transitory,
Or the shells that cast them thus?
Children who donít have names break
for clothes that do,
Lonely men wander through deserted spooky manors,
Whores strut on crowded, dangerous boulevards,
And where does that leave you?
You donít fit, none of us doÖ
Souls do not make puzzle pieces,
Existence renders nothing universal but itself,
And cares little for your breath,
The air remains,
The lungs collapse.
We are not delighted; but perpetually amused.
Joy we seek and laugh at our sweet failure.
Does this not prove we seek the divine,
Just not the used and store-bought kind?
No cup as full as thirst,
No mate equal to desire,
No touch as soft as whispered breath,
Or as fierce as my conviction,
That we are HERE, none have truly answered why.
We do not have a collective purpose,
But that parasite, existence
Feeding on itself. (us)