Is there a reality?
A definitive, cognitive memory?
Is there just surrealism?
Because life is abstract,
and perception subjective
Is anything objective?
When created by us – primates
Who’s to say we see the same
When we stare into one another’s eyes
Don’t our minds trick us?
For the harlequin of psychology
has such avant-garde anthropology
And my personal anthology
Sometimes is coated with misogyny
Which crawls into one’s cells
We all need therapy.
Damn this conflagration.
Transcending the temptation
To view the world as flat.
But would I dare?
What would you care?
You may not even exist…
This empire stretches into infinity
A globalized, hypothesized affinity
We’re in a simulated existence
Trapped in our own persistence
And arrogance; to think we know it all.
Are we merely a game?
Played by a sadistic monster?
Are we not driven insane?
By random glitches in the matrix?
In the egregiously written code we entered at birth.
We’re far from perfect.
Is it us that’s losing?
Or is it them?
Or is it him or her?
Or could it be us all -
spiraling in a vortex of misery,
Never sympathy.
There never was an island.
And there never is a heaven.
Just thoughts to keep us going
Keep us working
Stop us knowing; caring; to give us hope.
We are an unfinished tale;
A ship commandeered by pirates
A body infected
Yet never able to heal.
Because the virus remains in our blood.
The pathogens keep flowing to prolong the agony.
Such a tragedy.
Life’s a mystery.
What if there never was a history?
It could all be fabricated.
And we’re inundated with diminishing choices.
Now go back to sleep.