midnight poesy

 what makes us believe?  when belief itself feels like betrayal? not evidence-- but a quiet certainty enveloped beneath doubt a reflex of our conscious reaching for a steady stance even when the ground is missing. hope never does arrive loudly all its adjectives are quiet lingering latent uninvited it disguises itself as patience as working without reason its like the gentle cruelty of maybe calling it faith is wrong, afterall its just anticipation wearing borrowed confidence a future i imagine just enough to get through my present therefore contrary to actual belief, we keep believing, not because its true, but because without it, we disappear. not because its true, but because truth alone cannot hold us. not because its true but because surviving demands a little fiction. not because its true, but because letting go costs more than believing.                                       ...

like fireworks that fizzle out, we bloom loud against the dark, convinced the sky is listening, convinced this light is permanent. but the night never keeps souvenirs. we rise from soil with borrowed names, call it purpose, call it fate, stack our days like they won’t collapse, repeat the same motions until repetition feels like meaning. everything circles back. roots to bone, bone to dust, dust pretending it was never alive. love feels infinite until it isn’t. empires feel solid until they crack quietly, one grain at a time. we loop— wake, want, work, wait— polishing routines until they shine enough to distract us from the ending. but even the brightest flare knows its job is brief. it burns, it dazzles, then apologizes with smoke. nothing escapes the fade. not stars, not systems, not us. we return to the ground we borrowed from, complete the circle, as if we were always just passing through                           ...