Ungrateful Eyes

As the moonlight fell into my ungrateful eyes, I chanted a ferocious wisdom — be alive. Why So? I don’t think the shallow riverside, where I flattened my canny rush of the day before, has halted my despondency. Neither did the solitude along the sidewalk make me ponder about my desires. I have always prioritized “I am not alive inside,” thought as it pins instability, and instability is flawless. Then, why was the stable luster that appears every fortnight so special? It was neither an obligation nor a hologram to pretend. I would assume the lusty brightness and terminality of the river rendered my shakiness. One is shady and flowing, while the other is still and bright. And both of them? They could make any ungrateful eyes alive.