The cosmos do not bend
to our might
the universe has a nature
of its very own;
control is a mirage that takes hold
we die when we die
but there will always be
an endless light
being fed to the living below

Where a mother just gave birth
in a dreary hospital room
filled with loved ones and flowers
next-door to a man who died
alone, in the peak of June
on that same day
with the same replenishing light
reflecting in what is a perfect sky:
meaning is an illusion
that we self-create

Why make sense of things
that are better left on the shelf?
Answers are bittersweet
figments of "truth"
akin to religion
and its unfruitful ruse
for it is no secret that language
plays a fickle tune,
each voice with its own sacrilege
to project as a catalyst
unknowingly for the downfall
where we all lose

To a bullish sense of self
deemed more important
as people shout and yell,
it's unbeknownst to them
that self-righteous anger
is also best left
on the shelf