our hearts are only beating
for a purpose tough to gnaw
they're all afraid to be as useless
as the people they beat for
and our souls are quite merely
large sacks of greying meat
that soon decay with the rest of us
under soil packed six feet
why love, when we are all unfaithful
to the maggots that await
why live, when beauty only exists
because we anxiously avoid our fate
why love when there's nothing;
nothing beyond our cages of skin
beyond pain, and the illusion of relief,
or the concept of goodness and sin
why give yourself a reason
for your soul to ache as sorely
why dig fragments out of such a thing
something so horrid, so poorly.
why love, my friend, why love?
when you can't possibly be loved in return
why love, you fool, why love?
each of us refuses to learn
we forget we're just mechanisms,
products of physics, flesh, and bone
individual [empty] prototypes
that live, and die, alone.
