We are nothing that matters,
created in mystery
while slowly dissolving to dust.
Pretentions and delusions our comfort as reality bites with it's point filed teeth.

We are not made of stars, nor moondust, we are products of all that has gone before and the destruction of all that is yet to be. 

I yearn to see this life through a rearview mirror, it's withered form a speck on the far horizon, for the hurt to stop as this knife in my back plunges further into my sickened depths, severing my spine from all it holds dear. 

I yearn for silence, for these thoughts to stop spewing from my acid tongue, burning my unkissed lips with a million wasted words while attempting to say only one.

Minutes turn into months, decades of meaningless days and miniscule triumphs. 

The stage is set, my role is uncast but the curtain never falls, I stumble wildly through blind utterances, dreaming darkly, while anxiously awaiting the applause that will herald my passing.

This is not living.