For Brooklyn

​Among the subtleties of human predicaments, I often like to imagine, is a lie that they had us believe. A lie- or a truth gone rogue- that was fed to us to keep the darkness away, which now ironically forms the very basis of it. 

The fundamental error of our lives has been to let that lie settle into our souls, to place our bets on the belief that- purposeful things cannot end into nothingness. 

Anarchy

The problem is that we believe.
That we search for reasons.
That we cannot accept chaos
That we cannot see souls randomly floating around
In anonymous expanse.

The problem is that we continue to believe.
That we continue to search.
That we continue to be disappointed.
That we continue to be tortured not seeing the scales
Balancing in themselves.

The problem is that our beliefs aren’t that strong
That our search is not that exhaustive
That chaos is not that accommodating
That by the time we wake up to reality
We would have lost our chance.

The problem is that we are still hoping
That we believe this poem is a lie,
That I am waiting for you to prove it to me
That I am waiting for you to come and tell me
That I am waiting.