It seems the only truth is conflict.
Conflict between truth and untruth,
Between good and evil, conscious,
Subconscious. Winning and losing,
Why try? It’s all a paradox.
Is it worth it, to make one’s self?
After all, we all will die, yet, perhaps,
We live on. Catholics give bread,
At least more often than anti-Gods.
Does happiness breed happiness,
Or simply procreate distress?
Impossibility seems quite possible,
If one speaks such words as peace.
Indeed, peace might still need war,
As death must conquer life.
Or else it overwhelms, chokes off,
Any chance of living free,
Thinking one’s own thoughts,
Of how it all came to be.
Yet nihilism seems too vain,
We all exist together, regardless
If we exist at all. Shouldn’t we,
If we is not, as it could arguably be,
An imaginary part of me,
Join together, and conquer war,
Create a freedom, if not real,
At least fully perceived?
Marquis de Sade would fully agree,
As he holds the whip, his devil’s tree,
Freedom corrupting the free,
Harvesting the planted seeds.
Is that what freedom comes to be?
Then certainly, a Dao, a way,
A path with heart, there must be.
But to freedom this could lead.
We end up where we started,
Regardless of right and wrong.
The sun will swallow the earth,
Still, we might escape,
And start anew.
I wish for this,
I wish for you.