In the beginning, into naiveté and hope's design,
In the tragic dance with the world's pulse divine,
An improbable escape from non-existence's sway,
Living the weep from the womb of dismay.
You are a futile resistance to time's relentless flow,
You feed the monsters and lie in deep woe,
With gravity,decay, and sickness' embrace,
You chafe and struggle from your inner space.
The vain and eternal evasion of pain,
In the sound of illusion,hope's happy strain,
Psychopathic,lifelong, accountable to spite,
A barefoot,blind child of misfortune's blight.
If then you dare to dream a purpose to find,
To taste something beyond survival's honey kind,
You forget,only death at the end you await,
Uselessly,for the fame that remains, you debate.
And yet our species, flawed and incomplete,
Without a sense of purpose,knows no retreat,
It seeks detachment from all that's not real,
And reproduction—the ultimate narcotic zeal.
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