Are we here to believe?
Or do we live to
grasp for comic relief?
There is no telling
what’s right or what’s true
only feelings that we attempt
to hold onto
when they’re in a constellation,
fleeting over the moon

Like shooting stars
with no true destination,
holding a well of wishes
that we make in desperation
with hope things will be different
as their light reflects
over the edge of an ocean
crashing and moving
as our wish turns into a notion
burning out in the sun
before it’s even begun
and we dive in

Because all we can do
is love and embrace
the hits of the waves
pulling us into a rave
of drowning, only to devour
and gasp oxygen
back into our lungs
as we hit the shore
begging for that star
to give what we already have;
the natural peace exuding
in our empty parts,
and nothing more