Would a board game without a goal
Still be one you'd consider playing
That seems to be the reality of existence
Obliviously wandering in hopes of purpose
Without any evidence of its confirmation
Then who's to say which path is truly right
When the destination is the same on both ends

What is it about loose eyelashes
That prompts wofty wishes;
Are they heaven’s kisses
In disguise?

We all want to lift our eyes
Above the cloak of disguise
Even if it may compromise
The facade, and authenticity’s surprise.

This world is concrete;
In Western buildings and streets,
In the here-and-now, we can flee
And dismiss lofty things as absolute.

But we are meaning-makers,
We are constant risk-takers.
We are pursuers for magic’s sake,
And may our quest we foolheartedly take.

Searched on every summit for lost elusive cures,
And for the alchemy.to make me feel I was pure.
I've violently torn through all that I am,
Begging every deity I’ve known for their hand.

There is no guidance.

What if healing doesn't surface, Cries muffled under sand.
A doctrine for the hopeful who will never understand.
My wounds still hold the daggers, unremoved.
What if pain protects the heart because it'll never be renewed?

There is no feeling.

Singing broken hymns inspires a hymn of praise.
Unspoken laws, maybe I'm an example being made.
I’m never broken; I can only wish to break with time.
I remain a quantum sonnet stripped of any rhyme.

There is no harmony.

Maybe there is grace that lives within a wilted plea.
In knowing, I’m exactly who I knew I’d always be.
A life pulling chains tethered to a hopeless mind.
What’s left within a soul, to see its purpose held divine.

There's nothing to believe.

Without residue of ash, from embers glow,
Haunted by the echoes, that have turned hearts to stone.
Our cold sweat of empathy for fellow misbegotten.
Stitched into the nerves of a body that is rotting.

There's nothing to see.

I cannot find belief in me for false restoration.
No longer a seeking of a hollowed-out salvation.
I walk with aching fractures to a rapture born in rust.
A fate I feel deep in my core, that all is made of dust.

There's no eternity.

What’s the meaning to the riddles I weave?
Is there truth in what remains, or is truth in what will leave?
As I stand, a withered body without a single plea.
I am all I ever was, all I know I'll ever be.

There's nothing to be.