The Fiction of Being

When it comes down to

separating truth from fiction

there are only our stories

memories true and untrue

the results of our convictions

baseless at their core,

a feat of contradiction

 

And all the while on this weary path

I became a shapeless, pallid thing

that feels compelled to see

some deeper, hidden meaning

as if the world’s made only for me -

the spark that lit the skies,

the drop that formed the oceans

while everything in between shouts and cries

at the absurdity of the notion

 

If I then should drown

in the darkness of the deep

where all other life thrives

without a single breath

its beauty hidden from my eyes,

let there be no trace

of my fall from grace -

just one more drop

in another ocean,

my spirit and substance

only an imagining

for another lost and weary thing.

Author's Note

I wrote this very quickly and with minimal edits. I guess it just came out this way.