if existence is merely an illusionary veil across our lids
then the inner euphoria that comes with this deception
must merely be a vindication of a life well-lived,
a life well-deceived.

if the misery and despair that drove the slits on my wrist
were simply drifting facades, simply an imitation of tangible grief
then which part of my suffering am I supposed to believe
was a concrete part of the life
I assumed that I lived.

if so,
why do we plainly disregard the ticking clock set upon our souls
the unrelenting countdown to our demise,
and commence the futile cycle of attaining earthly affluence
too worthless to transport into the abyss
that charters all that you believed.

what if the breeze brushes your final flame
and no god exists to magistrate your sins
and solely the predicament of non-existence
occupies the nullity of your fading essence.

then is living truly a desolate state
with a hopeless beginning and an unavailing end,
and just the perpetual succession
of a life fully, entirely, deceived.