Better to not think about it

Uncertainty is nothing more
Than the fabric our lives
Are made of
Living in edges of knives
As we compile another lore

But there is no point
Nothing waiting
Nothing greater
Nothing sacred
No hatred
No love
Nothing to fear
Nothing to look forward to

There is no meaning.

The unspeakable truth
Too true to be held as such?
Is the simple negation of object
Of subject, of life.

This ominous fabric we lie within
Is woven by this asfixiating notion
And our path, bound to our elusive belief in its denial.

But I want to believe.
I need to.
Just don't seem able to.

Beyond its complete acceptance
Only finding false meanings in a meaningless existence
Exists.

In the hope, that maybe,
Maybe,
They're real.

Maybe,
We're real.