They could have been words on a page
written in the boldest of blue ink,
instead of a subconscious rendition
of a digitalised conception
where the filter has acted to prevent
meaning from making herself known.
Though confused, I ponder and remind myself
to stop playing this game with no rules.
Sub-atomic misperceptions all in alignment
with the many stars that still don’t know my name.
Yet they sit on a chart misrepresenting themselves
as I wallow in my foretold misfortunes.
Is it to be believed? The day, the dream.
The reality that holds back with web like detail,
and squashes my anger with shame and regret.
And a letter to thank me for participating.
This is the game of life, where everybody
gets a prize just for showing up, but never
for making sense of the diatribe of a
thousand lost voices all in a row.
It’s not meant to make sense, it’s just
meant to be lived, breathed, chopped up
and dissected, inspected, under a microscope
where life can be studied, confusion and all.
We’ve started exploring the cosmos. Why,
to get as far from ourselves as we can?
Yet every step we take there we are,
staring back at ourselves as we flee to the stars.
The very stars that foretold our fate.
That knew we would build from the rubble
of our own inner destruction and anxieties.
As we clamour to reach our soul’s great height.