My existential dilemma

To soil I return,
Crumbling into dust at the touch of your fingers,

After I have stopped thinking about this life.

A life that’s purposeless and important,

All encompassing and yet a shadow.

And I cannot fathom why we’re here,

Battling it out on a mantlepiece.

Do I stretch my thoughts to a quarter life crisis?

Do I read myself through scores of novels, both silly and grim?

This is about me: flesh on a heart that beats intermittently,

A person with a mind obsessed with my own perception of this world,


Whisking away in embers the dying light of the day.

Wanting like the moon that leaves the sky once in a while and we never notice.

And it is, through numerous reruns into a past well forgotten,

I constantly become one with my million faces.

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