The Grand Reduction...

We draft the blueprints of a sacred spark,
And trace the constellations in the dark.
We write the sonnets, burn the midnight oil,
Elevating passion from the fertile soil.
We swear it’s cosmic, heavy, and divine,
A meeting of the souls in space and time.

But then the velvet curtain falls,
And nature strips the plaster off the walls.
After the poetry, the vows, the heavy sighs...
It’s just biology in a clever disguise.
Yeah, it’s just skin on skin,
Where the monologues end,
and the animals begin.

We pray to shadows that we’ve never seen,
To keep our fragile, little consciences clean.
We build the altars, buy the holy bread,
To numb the quiet terror in the head.
Then raise a glass to toast the King of Light,
And drink until we lose the sense of sight.

And then the velvet curtain falls,
The hangover is pacing through the halls.
We seek the absolute, the spirit, and the grace,
But wake up staring at a blurry face.
Yeah, we chase the divine,
But we just end up paying
for the cheap red wine.

We sit in cafes, sipping our lattes,
Debating Sartre, Camus, and the fates.
Thousands of words on what it means to be,
Spinning the wheels of our philosophy.

But all the arguments about the spark...
Are just a whistle in the deepest dark.
Beneath the theories of a life well-led,
We’re only counting down the days
Until we're dead.