The stars do not fall with our might, the universe has motive of its very own: possession 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 a perfect sky: meaning is also an illusion that we 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