Pursuit

Never knew how long ago,
how many versions came before —
or how many will rise after ours:
vessels collecting souls,
feeding on urges and desires —
to acquire:
first, attire;
second, a mask;
third, a class;
and, alas, everlasting pleasure.

We crawl toward that which points ahead,
blind to where it begins,
deceived into awakening as it unveils,
seeking what’s never there.

A crack appears, revealing what lies beneath:
fragile identity, false personhood.
To face the mirrored lusts,
to taste the weight of one’s own lies.
We all lose, we all bend, yet still pretend.