Why are we here?

Why are we here?

Is the meaning of life to multiply?

To seed the earth, only to watch

those seeds grow thorns,

to battle roots tangled in blood?

Is it to love?

That brittle word —

a blade wrapped in silk,

cutting even as it caresses.

Love kills, love wounds,

love leaves scars no one can see.

If not that, then what?

Is this some silent punishment,

a realm where hope is a rusted chain

dragging behind us

as we stumble through days

that taste of smoke and salt?

Perhaps this is hell,

not flames and pitchforks,

but an endless stretch of questions

with answers that never come.

And so we wake, we move, we break,

again and again, because there’s nothing else.