Illustration by Seth Bindal
How sad we become when inevitably realizing
our very existence is a vast contradiction—
a discrepancy that I realize makes me a liar.
Signs and words are needed to convey the world,
only truly caring to do so
in talk between soon dying relations—
all while known and agreed.
The world exists outside of you and me,
and all the descriptive words of life between.
But existence is a word of only signs,
continuing a nonending play.