Poetry

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B
?this thing "life" for?
When we're done strutting grandly
And the silence settles in
Like the evening shroud of fog,

What truth is cloistered in our hearts
That we know for sure is ours?

What do we aim at with our brave words,
Or are they merely flung out to fill the void
With forgetfulness, with the pretense
Of wisdom and the barrier of speech,

Before the slow, silken realization
Of pointlessness wraps us in its mantle?

Will we say we know nothing
Or, will we say nothing at all?
Will we be brought, like a piece of bread,
To the precipice, where the water falls,

Humbling ourselves as nothing?
Then, we can be born again.

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