Phrases keep lingering in my mind,
simple, yet obfuscating ideas
about the existential things
all young poets strive
to dissect
with their words.
‘Life is simply a death worship.’
It’s heavy, existence
in this world.
‘There is so much said in the silence.’
One could point to the
character flaws of humanity —
the ignorant and bitter
ruses of power,
the battles of
pessimistic optimists —
but none of that seems to matter.
‘Everything was beautiful and nothing hurt.’
How do you do it?
‘The heart carries scars.’
How do you see
the world without
faltering?
‘Stuck. Like glue.’
These phrases seem small,
non-consequential at first glance,
yet I feel unsteady in their wake.
‘The world is coming undone.’
So It Goes 