The World Is Our Romancer
Something unknown to you,
The catastrophe and the glue,
You bring eagerly to the table,
Cutting and hacking wildly,
Something unknown to you,
Sticking it all back together
To make something new
Willingly, you let it stick to you,
Believing your mere existence
Holds everything
Unto death,
Though your promises start to taint the truth.
You watch yourself
Peel it all away from you,
With eyes stone cold.
Any inkling of a flutter,
Or sign of chemical intrusion; the muddle of neurons receptive to delusions,
Or ominous ache,
Leaves you an infantile mess of euphoria and confusion.
Yet you transcend
because you know
The culprit, the sadist, that thing
That’s always somehow missing, even when it envelops you
The infinite and all-encompassing glory and horror,
Of that thing, the juxtaposition of the infantile love of the living;
The inevitability of death
Is something unknown to you.
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