To Live

What does it mean to live?

When we measure life in time,

And time is nothing more than imagination.

When we claim to know beauty,

Which is made of the perception of atoms.

Why ask the “what” if we don’t know the “why”?

The one that hides in monotonous doubt.

The one you see when gazing at the stars.

The one wallowing below until the bitter end.

Reality is built on stones of non-fictional grey,

Only to compose our “why” of chrome fantasy.

Given the equation, “why”?

Given the answer, “why not”?

Thank you for the read! I hope you enjoyed the poem.