Fatalist

To exist holds the gaping unanswered question,
if reason or armored conclusions can be possible,
or maybe it abounded vigourously out of chance.
If we are here to woefully help one in an entirety,
maybe first we should polish silver ourselves first,
before greasily stainining the already tarnished collective.
Perhaps a vulnerable answer can be illuminated,
temporarily death gripped in some void morality,
or drawn difinitive in the enescapable
science.
Hence to stubbornly accept religious aristocricy,
hiding corrosive eating upon asture beleifs,
that dimly lit life exists for an unnamable power.
Digress to the black forged launguished despair,
when one finite answer is drawn eternal questions,
existence can only be a garrished blank canvas.
Since no herald loud facts can be substantially drawn,
ever thirsting the permefrost river of unheeded knowledge,
to surrender to the lapsed continuum residing within.