We walk the world with laughter thinly veiled,
A brittle mask to hide the terror we’ve assailed.
For deep within, a worm gnaws at our core,
Whispering: “You are but dust, and nothing more.”

Yet daily life, a frantic, busy play,
Distracts us from the grinning skull’s decay.
We build our myths, our dreams of boundless worth,
To shield us from the shadow of the earth.

Each child, unashamed, demands the world’s acclaim,
To be the hero, enshrined in lasting name.
This fierce urge for cosmic worth, for meaning vast,
Burns in every culture, present, future, past.

We hunger to be chosen, glorified and praised,
To leave a mark that cannot be erased.
Yet what lies beneath this striving and our pride,
Is the cold dread of being nothing, cast aside.

Society, a fortress built of dreams,
Invents its hero-systems, grand regimes.
We march in step, we bleed, we cry, we strive,
To prove our fleeting selves were once truly alive.

A temple, empire, family, or creed—
Each a scaffold for our mortal need.
We hope our works will outlast death’s domain,
Yet sense their fragile nature, feel the strain.

We fight for causes, just and sanctified,
Yet evil grows where righteousness resides.
Our “holy” wars, our scapegoats and our blame,
Reveal our need for meaning, not just fame.

To purge the world of “evil,” seek to win,
But spawn more suffering and hidden sin.
Our best intentions, warped by primal dread,
Can drown the world in deeper, darker red.

We soar in thought, yet shackled flesh descends,
That stark paradox: the crowned ape who still pretends.
We’re gods in dreams, but grubs when stripped of guise,
Afraid to face the void behind our eyes.

The body, reeking, needy, bound to rot,
Confirms we are but clay, and soon forgot.
We crave for purity, for wings, for light—
But perch atop our darkness, cloaked in night.

Our character, a “vital lie” we keep,
A fortress built to help us eat and sleep.
But cracks appear when terror creeps inside,
And all our borrowed courage turns to pride.

We armor up with custom, faith, and role,
Yet shudder when the world escapes control.
For every mask will slip, each myth must fall,
Leaving us defenseless—exposed to all.

Yet some, like sages, dare to truly see,
Embrace their dying, struggling to be free.
They shed the armor, face the endless night,
And find in death’s acceptance, fragile light.

To live with eyes wide open, not in flight—
To love, create, and struggle for the right.
This is the solemn hope, the truth we might find:
A trembling peace, a courage of the mind.

So here we stand, each mortal soul alone,
Yearning for meaning, aching for a throne.
Perhaps in honest reckoning we’ll see
That death denied is life’s true tragedy.

But if we face our terror, meet its gaze,
We summon what neither time nor fear betrays—
For courage, born where deepest shadows fall,
Is rooted in accepting: death claims us all.