Bad Poetry written in Haste

Sorrrow,
Axiomatic
Sorrow,
Pure and relentless
Sorrow,
The underpinning of
Self,
Brutal and primitive
Self,
Failed to be more than
I,
The I that troubles the
Eye,
The eye that troubles the
Mind,
The mind that troubles the
Soul,
Beautiful, resonant
Soul,
All that will ever be
Source of Infinity
Soul of delight though its
Locked in duplicitous
Body,
Joyous and meaningless
Body,
That’s inherently born with a
Flaw,
That sows the idea of
Sorrow,
Tells you everything’s going to
End,
Everything that you hold
Dear,
Everything that you could
Make,
Everything that you could
Know,
Everything that you keep
Safe,
Everything that you will
Love,
Will die in cold reaches of
Space,
And there’s nothing to stop it,
No consciousness here,
The helix is twisted,
The answer’s not there,
And once you remember,
How could you forget,
And how can the world be the
Same?
The constant is
Sorrow.

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