There is no sense
in making sense
of senselessness
derived from the absurdity
of understanding life
as is
Maybe because
being so consumed by
what was or what will be
distracted by decisions
of what should be
say as if
deciding had weight
on the blind hand
that wrote this
There is no sense
in making sense
With your hands
you set out to carve
or perhaps hoping to
sculpt
But that blind hand
that built this machinery
has foretold how it will be
Of billions upon billions of paths
it had to be this one
what has your deciding got to do with it
there is no sense in making sense
of why it is
just that it is
Strings that pull and tug
the butterfly flaps its wings
the machinery that churns and hums
and you believe in something absurdly
that it is you who has faculty