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

However

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.