Life is But a Paradox

These boundless bonds of purgatory
Chafe and tear the skin
In a way soothing as a mother's touch
To wax and wane
Both too large and yet too lean
With nothing of meaning sacred
There is no sense in it
Just to intuit without intuition
Tearing apart a thousand empty boxes
To find a single grain of sand on a beach
Oddly bereft to find you hear
A kind of hollow sadness
Like knowing what you ought to feel
Without the comfort of actual emotion
It lies here, and exhausted heap
Eyes closed and lifeless
With strong breath
An oxymoron of moronic proportions
Ingenious in its lack of whit.