Beneath our skin it is explained to be,
just chemicals which degrades the beauty of humankind we see,
but is taught as fact.
Withering souls ferment over time,
in a jar of sour reality so sublime,
to live and to die.
Human stories written in an attempt much without chaos,
bound by perception and timid face-off,
curating a rule-book of order from our shared senses.
Wet pillow cases where a carer’s support is lost or not found,
dismissal of values to which our heart pounds,
feeling it impossible to find the loving kind.
To pursue a connection that sparks comfort in the beholder’s eye,
just senses, perception, where truth of our reality is guise,
unproven and incomplete.
a concatenation of incompatible groupings who pretend an act so merry
form our sad and lonely society, at work, at home, in bed, in our dreams.
Pain is told to be a branch of wisdom,
enters the self-help book we try to fathom,
abundant in this hour.
But to survive is to reproduce,
as a species stripped down to what we earlier introduced,
Romance is a fallacy that rules,
convince yourself of its truth but do not be fooled,
Genes are selfish to which evolution overrules our volition, our control, our decision.
Those weak in numbers that dare to speak,
against the mass using power and wealth to impede the weak,
Only to present a society so divided.
But what are we but just chemicals?