Erotic

Here it stands, engraved in sand, carved in clouds
My own, unread, vague, mere sketch of shrouds
Fragments of a questionable logic, of a void existence,
In a vain attempt to testify its own being
In a shallow excuse of a somehow desired beauty,
Trying to magnify its absent and pointless impact.

The uneventfull number, in its fragile shell,
In its vain proof of worth, as it sees, through its
Murky window, that we live in our own hell.

And there are no justifications.
No objectives but the ones you've imposed on yourself.
The light-headed guarantee of destiny within meaning,
Just another keeper of sanity, so that in arrogance, one may survive.

Brought by a random coincidence, by random hearts.
Saught by the same, defined and lived by the standards.
Dying in fear, in a desireless craving for more.

More time,
For the mindless and man-made merry masks, the muddled
metaphors mainstreaming the mating,
The sensual, sexual scent, seeking the scalable and sacred
sustenance and survival of a species.

And I know its meaningless. It seems random, chaotic.
Still there it is. At least, one day, there it was, erotic.