tonal in tune with the apathetic moon

seventy five degrees
under gray skies that promise
the forty degree shift
expected to happen
any moment now
times like this
make me wonder if
god or gaea or whomever
fucked up a perfectly fine
void
with the worst punchline
ever conceived
is just as bipolar
as me

maybe i am
perfection
in shattered repose
an exact
infinity to one ratio
inaction figure
of the creator herself
cast to fail
in comedic tragedies until
the sun burns itself out

this could be my
special purpose
or i have fallen so far
into the absurdity
of trying to extract meaning
from the solidity
of meaninglessness
the madness has purged
all rationality
from my bloodless corpse

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