Hail Gravity

People are fallen.

Gravity is just an excuse,

a scapegoat for a species

addicted to collapse.

We don’t stumble.

We choose the fall,

crown the ruins,

call them monuments.

Every headline is a suicide note

written in collective handwriting,

each letter dipped

in the ink of denial.

We tripped over shoelaces

while reaching for the stars,

then cursed the stars

for being too far, too cold, too cruel.

We shame gravity

over and over again,

as if the universe itself

were conspiring against us,

as if descent were not

our oldest instinct.

People are fallen.

Not by sin,

not by fate,

but by design.

And somewhere,

gravity sits alone,

tired of the blame,

smoking dead hopes

rolled into silence,

waiting for the day

we finally admit

we were never victims,

but architects of our own undoing.

The day we etch the epitaph

to the grave we dug ages ago.

A god-damned tombstone that reads, 

"Here rots the frauds of flesh

that penned their own demise

then dared to call it destiny."