There are sacrosanct daydreams
That, all at once, are too much yet not enough
Whether to make one scream
Between the deafening cries of undeniably divinity
And the consistent ache for the unknown
There’s a schism of morality that we all fall victim to at some point
It’s not a choice, truly
More an inclination to our own mortality
Our humanity
Whatever that may be, of course.
Not like we can cultivate anything near the divine
We can look upon the stars
But we can never call them home
It’s a beautifully tragic irony which begs the question—



Why?