Fog

We say walk the walk, none of us do.
We are scared of the very thing in us that defines
Who we are, and perhaps who we are not.
Or maybe what we are yet to experience,
Like the trauma that could sink to where you haven’t been.
The depths of the abyss. The secret room in the dungeon.

This petrifies us. When death could become a straight line
Between two points. We become obsessive about the possibilities.
We are islands in a pseudo world. We don’t have real connections.
We like the “Like”-superabundant to belong. We don’t even remember
What we have liked in the past, in a post.

And there’s a room we could sink into, an escape without the plot.
The exits that the heart hasn’t thought, is what makes
You look at the stars at night. Is my world like the night sky, you wonder.
Little speckles in an otherwise sable backdrop.
And somewhere there, is a black hole waiting,
Counting the hours or years, that fate has left for you.

Escape is not a Houdini’s trick. It is a merciless choice when you’re
As lonely as an island in the middle of nowhere.
And you pray to god, you don’t come to that secret room
Where there’s a latch and a chute to only god knows where.

And through fogs of darkness and the closed door to infinity
We stay alive, carrying the weight of sin, like an ant
That can carry many fold its body weight. And infinity
Is a light that burns its filament to soak in total darkness.
We are all bulbs with a shelf life, and what stands
Between light and darkness, is only our own choice
And an uninhabited secret room, whose interior
– You hope to god – you will never come to see.

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