living is a conspiracy meant to make us comfortable
with the fact that we are nothing but
walking coffins.
coffins that harbor our dead, slumbering souls
souls that await their final burial.
that is the true purpose of our birth,
of our precious life
to transport us to a new destination.
souls are merely cargo.
but I don't dare complain, for fear of eviction
of what I've come to call
a miserable home
a humbling abode
my sanction of sanity.