Our very existence is
a dot on a map. A tiny statistic in
an infinite wrap of disasters and
chance meetings. Our parents
through to ancestors.
Each decision domino-ing back
smacking any sense of anything
we currently might hold
until it's rolled to the very beginning of time.
On the theory it's not infinite that is.
Or completely static -
Finite and complete
Deceitful pre-made stories
so we can never see.
To understand this probability
is more than probably unlikely.
Freeing sperm and ovaries
combining pleas through time.
It makes no sense that we exist
but it couldn't be any other way.
The past is written by our hands
with no eraser to console.
We are unable to see our conclusion
and fail to see our sum
running from understanding
demanding a forced landing
running into forests to ensure we're always lost
on a mission to see something
we paint upon our faces.
Battle through to see ourselves
but we're simply self defeating
fleeting aims of grander
blander hopes of praise
raising eyebrows not children
to an ever failed race.
It's easier to believe that nothing is real
than to deal with the chance this
surreal shit reveals some crazy
yet accurate fractured ideal.