Pan-Gai

Humanity fleeting under the grasp
though in control so far as is
reached, and what has been wrought
is not mere flesh and bones
but rather was among the first beauties
I had ever cherished, the cherub
cry of feti angels and quasi-rulers
who cling to guns and bibles
for nothing else remains that is
tangible. In marching, memories
are forgot and forsaken, futures,
ultimately, forgone, in favor of
whims we cannot help but to follow.
Our hollowness is truth, and since that is
true, then it must be in concert
with the idea our mundane-nity persists.
However, if all that is, is,
then isn't there enough, without all that isn't?