for some wicked reason, people choose to not be who they really are, and instead let other people guess on their own. aye caramba!

we all live in the sanctuary
of a tranquil monastery
high above the Himalayas;
we thrive on the penchant
notion that life is a sacrifice
and that heaven is achieved
through a measly pile of coins
and candles set ablaze by faith
that is lost somewhere between
manila and the moon.

how irrevokably repulsive our idea
of reality is - that it does not bite
since it has no teeth; what shame
we befall on us all, thinking
that there is hope if we pray; that there
is life after death; that there is love
after foxes and pigs have fought
wars, died, resurrected and moved on.

come to think of it, we are all
hopeless romantics trying to relieve
ourselves of the assumption that love
exists for all; admit it now that we all
look for love that knocks us off
our feet, and yet find no belief in our
hearts that this love still exists.
we live in our own vacuum; relentlessly
searching, and yet not finding. why
is this so? because in our very souls
we doubt. and what existence is completed
if there is doubt?