Poem in the Dome
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.