Bhabayagga

I’m sure of nothing, no one; we’ll never be ourselves. Our lone device is left to searching through bins and vessels on drives and circles one by one, houses upon houses secreting pills and thoughts and air behind their stealthy doors and bellies. I stab into each of their ugly little anthems. What is mine? What is mine. Windows caught on Christmas trees pathologically white the pale hypnosis of television bleeding through curtains drawn to a slit. What dares to go on living in there? Dawn comes drunk and begging shrill and shameless, undiscerning ‘till the string breaks high above the plains ‘till it’s e

I’m sure of nothing, no one; we’ll never be ourselves. Our lone device is left to searching through bins and vessels on drives and circles one by one, houses upon houses secreting pills and thoughts and air behind their stealthy doors and bellies. I stab into each of their ugly little anthems. What is mine? What is mine. Windows caught on Christmas trees pathologically white the pale hypnosis of television bleeding through curtains drawn to a slit. What dares to go on living in there? Dawn comes drunk and begging shrill and shameless, undiscerning ‘till the string breaks high above the plains ‘till it’s e

They say that such Ignorance is bliss But in the eye of the beholder What beauty is there to consume? The untainted breath of A newborn lamb Blanketed in a white coat Cannot be assumed to be Something pure Free from all evils If its life has just begun The only thing To be rightfully judged Is what has been on Earth For more than a second Day by day you build Who you are What are you? An angel of sin Or a demon of god? Disregard the fact That they have begun With a blank slate In the hands of fate What comes in store Is all that truly matters