An answer is as rare as the happiness we feel
Our supposed antecedent of life
Is an antediluvian cause
Acting like an anterior to our collapsed hearts
We are in an apoplectic state
Oblivious to the smallest beauty that surrounds
Perhaps we think in appanage
Therefore no apologia would appeal to our consciousness
Let's us apostrophize appearances
Suggesting to us as weak
We ask ourselves what our ardent preoccupations are
Because this life is short
Are we really the arbiter in our choices
Our delusions
Serves as a arable for destruction
Our living archives can't arbitrate attitudes
Since this arduous journey
Trying to keep still on an arete bearing arms
Of arid causes known only to us
Then again maybe not
Here is an armature for thoughts and feelings
Still incomprehensible
And I am tired of being kept at arm's length
From not so much attention
This articulateness is artful but emotionally weary
Lying like anthracite anticipating what remains
