A song of lament in three parts

There is nothing/ beautiful in all of reality/ it
Is the fear of that/ -realization- that keeps people in
An innocuous/ perpetual cycle of
Ignorance/ paying rapt attentiveness to the delusions
In/ their own hearts/ the chill of impending abandonment
Clinging like/ a mist on the half-closed/ lids of down-cast/ eyes like the refusal
To read the last sentences of a sorrowful novel/ they have sensed
This ending/ unable to utter the words/ for fear of a harsh validation/ their
Existence weakened/ by a fragility so all-permiating
That a collection of words
Will be their undoing

How, is this myopic existence/ you lead? They ask/ examining each-other’s frivolity
With fractured eyes/ picking apart these formless
Things/ as if there has ever been anything else/ as if
The act of existing has ever extended beyond the mere filling of space on a forgetful timeline/ see the
Way even the most procedural of existences - an exercise in masked meanderance/ yes,
They are a mockery of determination/ proceeding quietly into that dark/ in denial that they
Are descending into hypocrisy and indoctrination/ how
Can we continue like this/ a perpetuation/ of a sickness - how far have
We fallen that we can exist/ out of breath as if running but we
Go nowhere/ -waking is a nightmare and living just an ailment/ still
On a search for a meaning that never existed/ or at least it doesn't

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