Monkeys with Machine Guns

We sought—what, we did not know, but we were lost and never found.

We fought—with ourselves but didn’t grow to turn our lives around.

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All the platitudes and haughty attitudes,

All the self-help joints, mere selling points,

All the teachers were just preachers.

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The path of the wise

Led to our demise.

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When it’s all said and done

We’re just a monkey

With a machine gun.

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I don’t mean to be so sour

But this could be our final hour

And we long yet still for beauty,

And we hunt yet still for love,

If only out of duty

To the unattained above.

Yet all that seems to flower

Is a new day’s will to power!

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(…despair sucked me in, pushed me down.

Am I lost or am I found?

Why do I feel this relief?

I finally gave up…)

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I won’t give up.

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I am the abyss

Out of which I climb,

The matter in motion

Who creates the time.

The painter and the canvas,

The poet and the page,

The sculptor and the rock,

The fool and the sage.

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In my search for meaning

I found the answer

In my own empty hands.