Cosmic Pessimism

There's a ghost that grows inside of us, damaged in the making

And there's a hunt sprung from necessity, elliptical and drowned

Where the moving quiet of our insomnia offers up each thought

There's a luminous field of grey inertia

And obsidian dreams burned all the way down

Arabesque ink wandering, winds itself around our ovate dreams

We seem to speak only in the imprecise

Geometries of black volcanic sands

Huge, impossibly regular shapes

Of rutted charcoal rocks hover above us

As if waiting

We do not live, we are lived

Pessimism, the last refuge of hope

From a blurred horizon, quiet black basalt pools

Bore into the rocks and our own patiently withering bones

Slumbering swells of a salt-borne amnesia

Course through our fibrous limbs

Scorched, wandering

Brine secretes from every pore

The luminous point where logic becomes contemplation

Lost in thought, dreamless sleep, adrift in deep space

A black glow in the deepest sleepwalking seas

We do not live, we are lived

Pessimism, the last refuge of hope

Around you this night, a thousand million firefly anatomies

Breathe in and out in their slow burning, liturgical glow

Impersonal sadness, to become overgrown, like a ruin

We do not live, we are lived

Pessimism, the last refuge of hope

We do not live, we are lived

Pessimism, the last refuge of hope

We do not live, we are lived

Cosmic pessimism, the last refuge of hope