The stars don't care about your prayers,
they burn because they're born to—
light bleeding across indifferent skies.
The bull lowers its head,
muscle rippling like anger unspoken,
charging not for malice but instinct.
Out there, the world chews your virtues
like gum gone stale, spit out
onto battered pavement.
You think goodness should matter,
like a dollar tucked into a beggar's palm
buys you grace, but—no.
Bar fights end with busted lips,
not apologies. The house always wins,
even when you play nice.
So go on, shine your saintly coat,
count your tally of quiet kindness:
the bull still doesn't care.
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Author:
gray0328 (
Offline) - Published: March 8th, 2026 04:12
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 4
- Users favorite of this poem: sorenbarrett
Offline)
Comments2
Good write, enjoyed the read and subject matter
Cynical and pointed toward nihilism it speaks plainly its view of life and the universe. It is a fave
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