Who defines righteousness?
Depravity? Morality or sin?They’re nothing but an afterthought,
A lingering mirage of something primal,
Some ancient records sung to a worn-down mandolin.
Their origin’s mysterious, effusive,
Their core beginning at the very dawn of time.
Born from a spark, ignited by the all-consuming fire,
With a desperate desire for a start.
They long for understanding,
Their essences to be completely bound,
Stuck to a certain comprehensive meaning,
Allowing them a moment of respite.
But life is ruthless, unpredictable and vain.
It cares not for one’s intentions, motives or desires.
It keeps on simply trudging forward,
Forcing them to perilously endure
Their endless, undetermined state.
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