Wholehearted Hallucinations

A poem of death via my own weird view/way

Wholehearted Hallucinations
by Keaton Foster



Know nothing,
understand
some things.
Wish,
all alone,
in a wilderness
of many bones—
stacked
quite high.

Death:
foolish,
said errand.

We must face
what is blind,
while not knowing
what comes next.

What we can’t—
or could never—
begin to know
is of chance,
happenstance.

Many shall seem,
dare I say,
will be
afraid.

But not I,
nor those
like in kind.

We fear nothing
because we live
for the very same.

Death,
more of an escape
than a tool of fate.

In our hearts
there is less
than in our souls.

In this world
of wolves,
we are not lambs,
nor are we beasts—
but rather,
dare endeavor,
just spectators.

This:
a cosmic simulation,
an overabundant
dereliction of prudence.

We are not mean,
nor are we kind—
neutral, defined.

These words,
it will be said,
are just rhymes,
splices and splines,
tissue and matter—
made up, molecular—
motus operandi
fit to an end
yet to exist.

Made
for a beginning,
broken
from the start.

Enslaved
to an idea
not yet thought.

Our minds:
idyllic prisons.
Our hearts:
captive audiences.

Wayward,
our spines—
a conduit
of lessons
in time,
between
our being
and our
nonexistence.

Greater
is any something.

What is believed,
what is connected—
a symbiotic synapsis
of aggravated damnation.

Wholehearted hallucinations
for us to see as real,
when what is real
is all but an illusion
of ideas,
thus fears
we could never hope
to truly understand…


Written by Keaton Foster Copyright © 2008-2021