Horizontal lines of clouds paint themselves gray on the dawn,
The geometry of which confounds my rationality,
Like the handwriting of a God which I no longer have faith in,
Inscribing on the void my destiny.
This moment was written, or so I am inclined to believe,
A whispered secret to the city that just doesn’t care,
There are those who deny it,
Holding to their superstition that because they cannot see it, there must be nothing there.
Holding to their worship of their idol: cynicism,
Holding to fucking because they are scared of loving,
Their social-construction mysticism,
Their cowardice, their self-interestedness, their brooding in their own mind’s prison.
These are no true atheists, they have no hypothesis to prove,
I suppose we’d all be nihilists, if we were afraid of living too.
I must admit those indulgent thoughts,
Appeal to me despite their portents,
There is a certain liberty in cosmic unimportance,
Cynicism is the freedom not to care,
But ignores the cross that all must bear.
So carry on ye innocents,
Look for calligraphy in the clouds,
Fall in love with subway strangers,
Make up stories that make you braver,
Don’t scorn the simple truths you see,
Be they God, justice, democracy,
Be they love or be they in me,
Allow yourself to still believe.