Bear it.
Bare it.
Your life.
Your soul.
You will collect your bearings, and
find your equilibrium in the spinning.
Speak, even when you know nothing you can say will fit.
A journey back to the very beginning;
we’re left to wonder is there anything left to wonder about?
Every important question —
treated like a brightly-coloured, broken toy —
seems answered well enough.
Bear it.
Bare it.
Their lives.
Their dreams.
Reel with indeterminate causation,
linked as if by an ominous fuse, sizzling with pain and blame.
Listen, even when you know nothing they can say will fit.
It all seems (doesn’t it?) too much for
the outmoded mechanisms of mortal beings,
with their ancient, irregular rhythms.
We long for the next evolution;
the meticulous-pristine, where reality and dream
comfortably coincide.
Overexposed vision blinked at with half-awake eyes.
Reality is just a compromise.
Bear it.
Bare it.
Our intemperate longings.
Our despair-laced hopes.
Feel, even when you know nothing we can feel will fit.
The straining fullness of being alive —
as popular as it seems,
it’s not enough to let mere habit drive.
Just how much gravity can we escape,
and still hope to survive?
