Every synapse fires
towards inevitable decay
(statistically speaking, you're already dead)
Yet here you are, meat puppet,
Still performing your dance

Your frontal lobe knows better
Than to trust in tomorrow
But some primitive lizard part
Keeps reaching for the light
Like a moth with a death wish

I've seen enough failed hearts
To know they're just muscle
But even bad pumps
Keep pushing blood
Until they don't

The numbers don't lie
Neither does the pain
Both tell us we're losing
But something stupid inside
Won't stop fighting

Maybe that's the real pathology:
Hope as chronic condition
No cure required