Gazing Upon the Prospect

And as I gaze upon the sunset,
The soft pastels burning in the sky;
I recall the prospects of my life,
Thoughts surely doomed to die.

The exciting prospect of adventure,
The placid prospect of a nap at noon;
The prospect of finding a few friends,
Of catching a maiden in mid-swoon.

The prospect of having no regrets,
Of living and experiencing to the max;
A life of luxuries and hardships,
Of never turning back.

The lofty notion of prosperity,
The dream of being financially free;
Of having more than you could spend,
Like money falling from the tree.

Waking up to the hope of sunrise,
Of watching it beam over the land;
Over windswept wastes and silence,
Over sunken scars and sand.

The prospect of seeing sprouts spawn,
New life springing strongly forth;
From the ruins of their forefathers,
Who ravaged and polluted this earth.

Our prospect of creating a world,
Many worlds that we could call our own;
And yet in the end all we would reap,
Is the destruction that we have sown.

Building imaginary empires of stone,
Our entire lives we slave;
For a generation that will never come,
One only destined for the grave.

And as our hope evaporates,
Rising upon the cursed wind;
Of creating a better world,
Of atoning for our sin.

We sit in solace at the prospect,
That life is but a game;
What of all that guilt we felt?
All the hurt and shame?

We play with each other’s feelings,
We speak and curse and shout;
And when it comes time to depart,
Leave no clue as to what it’s about.

And that is all life is,
A joke we tell our friends;
A temporal tick of the clock,
The variety of spice we blend.

In the end are we not just a tiny ember,
A withered frond that burned briefly?
A silly sentiment gone swiftly,
As the fire in our eyes goes out.

We are the dream of the butterfly,
The wild chimera that Lao Tze saw;
With wings so we could soar,
And defy the gravitational law.

And as the butterfly dreams,
So too are our prospects imaginary;
Frazzled figments of our best minds,
In our little bodies we will carry.

To our imaginary friends,
And loved ones we bring;
That imaginary notion of love,
That we all endlessly sing.

For what prospect does love have,
What purpose does it bring?
Merely a tool for survival,
Or for the lost and lonely to cling?

Cling to the hope that someday,
They will be happy and content;
That all their problems will be solved,
And the haters will repent.

Just as the butterfly does not recall,
The dreams of its past;
So too should we let go of it all,
Let memories breathe their last.

As we stand in the face of our impending doom,
Of certain demise we live on;
And in our hearts of stone and gloom,
The prospects have all gone.

That long last prospect of being,
That final solitary one;
A craven figure upon the dry earth,
Staring into the harsh sun.

To witness the world as it falls apart,
As the mountains roll into the sea;
To watch with your own eyes,
As our empires cease to be.

To breathe in the ashes of the charred remains,
What is left of our paltry existence;
A bittersweet ending to the words,
To the short life that we were gifted.

In our quest to find meaning,
The purpose of our lives;
We discovered the wealth of learning,
We multiplied in our hives.

We grew beyond our boundaries,
And lived in many lands;
But in the end we didn’t understand,
The madness that was in our hands.

And in our bid to make meaning and sense,
Of our bleak bustling businesses;
We found out that the purpose,
Is that everything is meaningless.

And as I gaze upon the sunset,
The soft pastels burning in the sky;
I think back to the good times,
Memories surely doomed to die.

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