A pointed finger
blows in the wind
Bespectacled eyes
look away.
It is not easy to see
those we love fall.
Alas, the chariot of
the sun passes by
And people hold hands
in the sunrise –
Without the need to
make sense.
What was it, that
pointless scheme, sense?
We would have all
been better off without it.
Heads held high,
Tears dry in the wind
In the sense.
My eyes fall to the
depths instead.
Everyone else
understands,
Why not me?
The point is to not
make sense.
Then no one knows
that you have the burden of infinite truth.
Which destroys my
nonsense.
