The thought strata collapses on its own,
Like a tower of cards falling apart,
Except that the wind is absent,
Or so it seems.

The aesthetics are purely an illusion,
Lost in the pursuit of objectivity,
Gliding through the wishful sky,
Wishing for what one is not.

The tears are flown into a river,
But the cause is left unknown,
Unknown to whom is not a question,
But just a yearned illusion.

The innards were spoiled long ago,
Or maybe even moved to another dimension,
Or maybe just another illusion,
Or maybe a result of believing in one.

The tower that once existed was tall,
But now that same one is not,
Or maybe it was never,
But it was still magnificent,
This is what the the self desires,
What was then an ugly monument,
Now is all glitters,
But all glitters can be gold,
For the observer is the sole god.

The desire to rebuild it is present,
Absent is the reasoning,
The longing for the identity is present,
Absent are the amends,
Demolishing and building towers is not complicated,
But breaking the cycle is hard,
Maybe the tower was never needed at all,
Present is already a synagogue.

The meaning once existed,
Or was it another illusion of it,
The absense is excruciating,
Although the truth is now known,
The longing for one is still inevitable.

The taste is absent,
And so is the thrill,
Return the goal that once existed,
For without it I am no one,
The reality is what I make.

Fearing being a no one,
Fearing being an outcast,
It all makes no sense,
Who is this no-one,
Meaning was always a farce,
Identity was the desire all along.