We sit quietly

Gazing furtively with lust in our eyes

We sit quietly

Shying away from talk

 

We are lovers upon the garbage heap

We are nonexistent memories of someone else

Writings from some ancient tome

That spoke of important things

 

Oft it is asked why we try

Truly, why try at all?

Should there not be a point

If so I cannot find it

 

Perhaps the point is then

That there is no point

We are crazed nomads

Ambling through abandoned conscious

 

There is a certain serene truth

To admitting you have no purpose

To taking your place upon

The garbage heap

 

And there is a certain understanding

Between you and the universe

That all things are in limbo

That all things are forfeit

 

It makes things exciting, doesn’t it

How thrilling to think

We are hopeless sailors

 

Sailing the sea which ought not be sailed