Through life, questioning it: to validate
The invalid position in which we eke.
Something’s got to give: and sometimes it’s you.
In its death-throes, the sun silently raging out,
Eyes half-closed, no distance left to go;
Furious with its own weakness, bleeding out.
Death is the authentic panacea:
but the stars, they too like Gods grow envious,
and by the evening, even Death grows weak.
There must be more: there must be more for me,
Or else why would I hunger for it, so?