We aren't what we are.
Did you get it?

Why do we converse about the stars?
Why do we marvel at the part,
That something so distant and heavenly far,
As fixations to fix our pretty little scars?

Why do we tolerate what they have told,
In a state so mightily and relentlessly cold,
Where even a shiver would break down our bones,
Pretend that we're fine, pretend that we're bold?

Why do we search through the history,
Of our old tales and ugly archived stories
Like the drama would end all of our misery,
But the cause of it all stayed a mystery?

Why do we come again this far,
And still we don't get what we are.
Are we all a creature of parody?
Of infinite loops of calamity?

In the end, the last page of our story,
Is the revelling light we call 'the sunrise',
A marvelous orange hymns with ultimate glory,
Spreading its wings upon another foolish paradise.

Telltale like a noble skit,
But now, did you get it?

___


🌄
© Zei