Waking Dream
I walked into it this morning,
a room with half-eaten thoughts
rotting into filth. It seems I remember this,
leftovers from before. But every day is new,
tumbling blissfully into confused ramblings.
Where was I? Memories coated in dressing-room gowns
and lit up like the best of Broadway.
Youapos;ll never know the meaning of eternity;
existence forever in all directions is not endless,
but timeless; meaningless.
One moment becomes the same as the last.
So the curtains rise and fall, but what was there?
The show goes on; it has always existed, and
always will. And could you change it? -
If death was the end and nothingness beyond it,
a thought averting death would bring eternity -
a death unto itself. Yet with the end
death is that, and that is done.
Nothing to know it doesnapos;t exist.
Existence itself to forever be nothing.
How can it feel to have faith in Nothing
as it contradicts itself? Yet there is,
all over again, thought after empty thought,
dream after dream... Meaningless, endless,
drivel. People lusting after something
that brings meaning to meaninglessness -
and the curtains close for me, the puppet strings
still as the grave, never stirring for something
so meaningless as instilled meaning.
Faded charade powerless in the face of revelation.
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