Literature
Remains
There’s still a little good left
a stubborn ember glowing
under the ashes of a world we
barely bother to look at.
We keep moving forward anyway,
carrying broken beliefs like they’re
armor.
It’s like someone wired a live
explosive into our bodies long
ago, and it just keeps ticking,
unchanged, unstoppable.
Like everything else, these
beliefs do what they were
designed to do, set fire to cities,
poison the air, and keep turning
the machinery of pain through
one hellish day after another.
We’re just one tiny slice of the whole
thing, a fragment of whatever existed
before the universe cracked apart.
And still, we go looking for revelation
in the neon tomb of the mall,
in the shiny chrome coffin of your BMW,
in the slow, apocalyptic crawl of traffic.
Someone flips you off
a tiny, useless weapon
against the endless emptiness
beyond. You can let go of the
moral rules you were trained
to accept.
They were constructed to calm
you down, to keep you docile,
to enable you to
