On the Futility of Existence

Life is but a fleeting dream, A moment's pause between screams, A brief respite from the abyss's cold grasp, That we cling to with desperate, gnarled hands.

For in the grand tapestry of time, Our lives are but a few loose threads, That will soon be snipped away, Leaving naught but dust and regret.

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Yet still we cling to hope, A will-o'--the-wisp that beckons, A mirage on the desert's burning sands, That leads us further into the abyss.

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The Futility of Hope

Hope is but a cruel joke, A thin veil between the void, A moment's distraction from the inevitable, That we cling to with desperation's grasp.

For in the end, it is all but dust, A fleeting thought that vanishes, A whispered promise that is soon forgot, Leaving naught but the cold, dark night.

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Still we hold on to it, like a liferaft, A fragile thread that binds us tight, A desperate grasp for something more, Than the abyss that lies before us.

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The Pretentiousness of Poetry

We poets are but pretentious fools, Who cling to words with desperate zeal, A thin veil between the void and our muse, That we use to veil our inner steel.

The Emptiness of Solace

Solace is but a hollow word, A thin veil between the void, A moment's comfort from the pain, That we cling to with desperation's grasp.

For in the end, it is all but dust, A fleeting thought that vanishes, A whispered promise that is soon forgot, Leaving naught but the cold, dark night.

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We cling to it with desperate, gnarled hands, A fragile thread that binds us tight, A desperate grasp for something more, Than the abyss that lies before us.

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