A Destinationless Expedition

I'm writing a story.

And beautiful allegories

Are piling up

Into meaningless worries.

Our existence,

A spec.

A grain,

In the Sands of Time.

While we painfully try to record,

Journalize every inch

Of what has and hasn't been told.

Keeping benchmarks

Of nothing.


What's ailing

Our souls.

And why do we

Ironically enough

Waste precious time

Writing about

The finite-ness

Of our rhyme?

It's a circle jerk.

And I think we all get off

To scripting

Our every curse.

I don't know what's worse:

          Trying to cry

          Or capturing it in a verse.

'Cause for all the cannons we disperse

The gun smoke just won't let us see

Where it lands,

And where the supposedly obligatory


Resonates in echo spans.

But no matter.

In the end, the tally is made

And we are merely

Steps on a ladder

Leading to more and more


When it's said and done

We are purely

A string of actions

And reactions

Summed up

And filed away

In some non-paginated volume

Of a coverless book

That only WE own anyway.

Or perhaps

Life simply boils down

To a stanza.

And we are all

Make-believe poets

Attempting to harness

The harmony

Therein contained.

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