Thursday, 10 May 2012

poem; The Black Box

The Black Box

Existential crisis
Is indeed 'why?'
A matter of I don't understand 'why' people do what they do
A black box
With only
Hope left in it.

There is a leak
In the edge seals
And hope kind of seeps
Out the sometimes
And like magic
If you look
It is empty anyway.

In this way
It is best left alone.
Best to keep the idea of hope
Alive in imagination
For if you don't look
Then you can at least be sure
It is imaginably there.

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