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A poem of death via my own weird view/way |
Wholehearted Hallucinations by Keaton Foster Know nothing Understand Some things Wish All alone In a wilderness Of many bones Stacked Quite high Death Foolish Said errand We must face What is blind While not knowing What comes next What we can’t Or could never Begin to know Is of chance Happenstance Many shall seem Dare I say Will be Afraid But not I Nor those Like in kind We fear nothing Because we live For the very same Death More of an escape Than a tool of fate In our hearts There is less Then in our souls In this world Of wolves We are not lambs Nor are we beast But rather Dare endeavor Just spectators This A cosmic simulation An over abundant Dereliction of prudence We are not mean Nor are we kind Neutral defined These words It will be said Are just rhymes Splices and splines Tissue and matter Made up molecular Motus operandi Fit to an end Yet to exist Made For a beginning Broken From the start Enslaved To an idea Not yet thought Our minds Idyllic prisons Our hearts Captive audiences Wayward Our spines A conduit Of lessons In time Between Our being And our Nonexistence Greater Is any something What is believed What is connected A symbiotic synapsis Of aggravated damnation Wholehearted hallucinations For us to see as real When what is real Is all but an illusion of ideas Thus fears We could never hope To truly understand… Written by Keaton Foster Copyright © 2008-2021 |