We write. Words flow.
The music of ideas, the polite masquerade
where otherwise raw, inarticulate emotions
can now bow and curtsy to each other,
rather than tear each others' throats out,
promenading around the ice statue centrepiece
that would be a bloodbath if allowed to thaw.
We seek meaning behind the mask and find none.
We try to make ourselves believe
our search itself generates meaning
only to find we chronicle our loss of faith,
yet writing is no more futile
than the life that it records.
The pretence of knowledge we perform
is a sin, yes, but one with which
we can purchase our former innocence,
and so in the end the only options left
are compassion, kindness, and love
for those, witting or unwitting,
who share this fate, who walk with us
if even for only a short part of the way.
In the end it is not a choice.
Words flow. We write.
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