In a trance.
Are we in the outside,
Are we out the inside?
Are we trying to be fools,
Are we trying to be wise?
No one knows.
We are all foolishly wise,
And wisely foolish.
No one knows, it is not clear.
Because it is rather certain,
The ambiguity.
We are all trying –
To live in the presence of our own existence.
To the skin and bones,
To the garden and roses,
To the wicked and thorns –
And to the beings we owe.
Let us keep this thumping hand full of songs,
We sing from our deepest hopes;
The cool and quiet breath of air,
Its uttering soul.
You must have been gone –
I cannot touch your hand.
But its volatility,
I could see the silliness,
Yet very intriguing –
The truthfulness of nothing.
To the roles we play,
And to the drama we fake;
The ultimate laugh,
You get confused;
"What is happening?"
At the end of the day,
All are parts of theories,
People like to develop;
Others do not find it funny,
"Just stop."
Silly me, for thinking –
You have cared enough.
The truth is,
There was never enough –
Hearts,
Or brains –
To live in the city of portals;
There was only a massive limit,
And profound over.
The truth is:
The truthfulness is in its own false.
It must be disgusting,
Seeing maroon blood –
On the marble tiles,
But you see,
If you flip –
The floor,
It is kind of anti-resistant;
The footsteps you lure,
In the marvelling flint;
The bombarded sound you hear,
Might be the hint to stop –
Or continue.
