Yog

We know not light, but for its archnemesis
Their relativity abounds to a want for exclusivity
Patterns of nature are but mycelium
Until we nail it, we'll stick to calling it telepathy

The lackadaisical quandary of the monotonicity of existence
Is a fixated, bleak, misanthropic prism gleaning
The motives behind a lizard on the wall; ants on the table
Even if all else is vanity, herein lay abundant true meaning

The right place and the right time, always an afterthought
Any significant sense of control: a connived delusion
Parents, siblings, bosses, colleagues, acquaintances; all destiny
Yet we have the audacity to think marriages aren't made in heaven?

To live or be occupied - that is the question:
Force and tenacity, akin to a log triapsing amidst the tide
Le pis aller, then tumble over the hurdle, here's paltry momentary relief
Void of reconciliation and self-discovery, my friend, we're just along for the ride

Tumult and saturation: hints from the universe
Asphyxiation of the spirit, resignation to the status quo
The senses are gateways to hallowed, experiential realms
Blessed are the unsighted, your world lies within you