We are a cage
A skeleton to be filled with
the muscle of imagination.
According to it, at the end of the day
everything could mean nothing to us.
The worst questions that arise
in its bloody ridges, would often find
peaceful answers by the dusk of that moment.
We have parroted karmic insolence for generations
to say that the bottom line is a blank one and
we will not attempt to find any answer to that.
We ask safe questions about numbing abstractions
as if we are seeking palliatives in them
punctuating our thinking with hemorrhages.
We shadow ourselves in the cosmos
hiding behind "It doesn't matter anyway"
but in this cage, where the sap still runs
through the marrow, there is a flow
of thought and time, and an ability
to exercise our muscle, beyond damnation.