Burden

I am but a writer, not an interpreter of words.

The burden of life pushes me forward, and it stands me upon the precipice

Of life death and all between, my thoughts drift away from my own, and ask the question

“Are we only meant to live, so that we may die?” I ask the world in bitter remembrance

Of all the torture, whispers and lies, which froze the soul in ice of darkness

Leaving me asking the paradoxical thought, “Are we meant to live, only to die?”

And what a reality this must be, what cruel imagination must have conjured such a place

Where the only purpose of the wonderment of life, is for it to end

And yet in my realization of this impossibility of logic, I realize that there is no subterfuge

In this statement alone in an eternity of mistruths, and so I feel sorrow

I feel emptiness, I feel despair; and then an overwhelming wave of exhaustion

And then…I feel nothing at all.