What is Man?

Someone, somewhere is lying to you and to themselves and to everything. Someone, somewhere stares into reflections that cannot be theirs before they rest, each night imagining how perfect they'd be if only this were different if only that had changed. Donning masks, and capes and smiling at all the wrong times just trying to understand what it takes to be invincible and meaningful. But they don't understand. Somewhere, out there people hum to lyrics that mean nothing because trying to understand the ones that do just isn't worth the effort. And it wouldn't make sense anyway. So why bother? Clinging to the folds of the pages of stories that will never get them anywhere, hang numb faces and blank eyes because there's nothing more to grasp. And if there were, it wouldn't make sense, anyway. Standing right in front of you are faces that don't exist outside of lies, and ignorant mist. Souls that live, because there's nothing more to do. Who think that how strong their arms are or how nice their hair looks is the only thing that means anything, anymore. Because what else is there? And they wear a mask, painted too thick with the lettering of their strength sewn across their chests. And they believe, somewhere in the gaps between missing dreams that it somehow matters. And behind them, silent tears fall from the eyes of people who see to much who feel too much and who understand, at least a little, that there's so much more out there. if only they'd take their eyes off broken mirrors maybe they'd see what's left when the paint from their faces begins to drip. But this is man, you have to remember and we don't have much to offer. We've got rap songs, and football. And if God blew that all away we'd be so lost. And it's terrible, that that's what it's come to. That a billion years in the making, is still only a single life an ever growing, ever moving breath that grows blinder, and weaker as it ages. From heaven, beleaguered angels watch and note that our footsteps keep getting softer and harder to see. And on His map of home, Our shepherd would see that his sheep weren't moving anymore. We're all standing so still. Stuck in thickets of ideals and promises that don't mean anything. That were only made to be broken. All of us staring each other in the eyes but not seeing anything. All of us listening, but not hearing. Trying to understand, but giving up. Because it'd be so hard, and we're too lost. And we've taken all the wrong roads. But this is man, remember. And those roads will forever lie twisted. And our feet will never move where we want them to. And there will never be enough make up in the universe to try and hide behind. We're a fickle creation, with lives made of follies. And yes, we all understand, somewhere inside of us, that there really is so much more out there. But we're not ones to seek answers, or cures to anything that might matter, in the end. We're a tired, wrinkled elder who has lived so long, so long and seen so much, so much but gained nothing, nothing on the journey. We've swam through the inkblots in Shakespeare's journals and we asked old Will what it all meant. But sadly, he did not answer us. Because sadly, there was never much to say. We've set the bricks, of millenniums past and we've counted how many footsteps stamp their imprint and we've wondered , just where they're headed. But when the sun goes down, and there's nothing left to do but drink, and fall asleep to the sounds of sitcoms that aren't even all that funny, after all, we realize that they weren't headed anywhere. That there's nowhere left to go. And still, someone, somewhere is clutching the sides of a cracked mirror and not understanding what she sees. Why her eyes are not bluer, her cheeks rosier her smile wider her hair longer. And still, someone, out there yells out songs about clubs, and dancing. But it means nothing, absolutely nothing. Yet no one cares. Why's it matter? And still, still, still they're spending money they don't have on shoes that really don't even fit so that maybe, they might pretend to belong somewhere. Because that's all you need, in a friend, of course. Expensive shoes, and perfect hair. But we're man, you can't forget that. And we're blessed to be so blind. Because maybe, if our eyes were wider, happiness, would be harder to find. We'd understand things like war, and politics and old men would stand up, and take action instead of chasing cars from creaking rocking chairs instead of complaining about things they aren't a part of. And this burden, this burden of knowing of seeing more than eyeshadow in the mirror is what would break us, when finally, it was all too much to carry. We'd wear clothes we actually liked and we wouldn't have to pretend anymore. But it'd be a lot of work, remember. And we're not up for the chore. We'd stare above our heads as we walked instead of at our shoes. And we'd hear the songs of bluejays instead of broken sounds, and drumbeats we'll always lose. And the notes, they'd make sense this time. And we'd wonder how we missed it. And the sky'd be bluer, when the stars came out and this time, we won't resist it. We're man, we're blind and unknowing and, God, there's so much out there, we aren't seeing. But that doesn't matter, so forget it all, today. Because after all, it wouldn't matter anyway.