It’s a serene irony, isn’t it dear?
How impotent we are in our moments
Across the bitter ease, of our lack of ambition
And the sevenfold love, of our lost dignity?
Languidly we plod on, like beings of evolution
A landscape of fresh Dawns, in cruel lands
It’s a surreal comedy, isn’t it friend?
Under a vast ceiling of silence
We suffice and part, equipped with desire
Enacting will, smited by the wilderness
The heart-mangled scorn of the past
Has nothing of note left on us
We are free at last, with the rich
Faun flash of new lines, new destinies
Beauty can flourish even in anguish
Life can feel vivid, even when sleeping alone
Feverish with independence, I beat away attachment
It’s a serene irony, insulted by promises
How I’ve grown old, even
At the risk of falling into eternity.