The prism of nihilism is around me.
What’s the point of the endpoint?
This schism of fatalism.
Breaks between the fixed fate and my disjoint.
Why should I live?
Why does it matter?
My reality shatters, nothing matters.
Yet even in the scatter of broken glass,a single spark dares not to pass.
Nothing matters, the void insists, yet still a heartbeat resists.
This gleaning of mine will make meaning shine.
The son is divine as he aligns my soul to the source that sets me on a course.
My design is refined by the blood once shed.
All this has led me to write in this dome, a poem carved from the depths I roam.