It’s not that complicated really, nerves wrecking the signals sent
to the intellectual, the emotional, the moral or spiritual
What else would we have been capable of?
We already proved everyone wrong.
Killed. Saved. Killed, saved
Killed to save. Saved to kill
The weak pretended to be strong,
this threatened their plan B.
“Be realistic, not sorry.”
No one feels your apologies as much as you
Much less the struggle to present some eulogy
Who wasn’t meant for the deceased but the spectators
Who kind of just went along, nodding at the host.
Two kinds of divisions actually multiply us more
Mere numbers, and scattered letters trying to make sense
The latter cannot conform without the former
Like the lazy protagonist who still made it big
Only because he measured the number of his ideal to the detail of his being
Combined and sealed them both together, rather than waiting to find his work’s meaning.