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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required We Survive Instead of Burn We waste our light just to extend a shadow passing through, And our life's a forgotten ritual lost in the fog of a lonely dream, We live like candles burning in the wind, our flame grown cold and blue, We survive — beautifully blind — like angels fallen from the seam. The madness of optimization has drained us of our blood, our mystery, our ember, We compensate the abyss of being with bodies greased in counterfeit immortality, We're like dead stars still shining on — spectral, strange, a fading member, And we mistake the echo of a life for a stage lit up on burnt-out ground, in all its false reality. Production is the new opium with which we put our deeper selves to sleep, Performance — a beautiful illusion embroidered on a silken burial shroud, We're compared to rivers that forget the sea, slow, without a cliff to keep, Flowing perfectly and hollow through cold worlds of digits, untouched, unbowed. Intensity sleeps inside us under heavy layers of consumption and haze, We've numbed within the soul everything that burned with fire and pure melancholy, Like forgotten gods inside their own temple, blind throughout their days, We survive magnificently — and die with every breath, with every enmity. But somewhere in me there still boils a magic blood, old as the world's first light, A wild flame that refuses the chain, the number, and the silence, It knows that to exist means to burn yourself alive — and claim what's right, That life is not survival — it's a sacred fire, it's the burning, it's the tide.
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