pure chase ,sold and awaits

This is the official notice,
a stamp pressedupon the inside of me,
no relation to ships, no grand voyages,
just the vessel, this body,
ever breathing, ever here,
and why can't you have why?
Is because the answer questioned,
the question itself,
if I can see,
is no, I cannot.
Not anymore.
Carnal desires,
those whispers in the marrow,
are in the betters,
the quiet spaces of interestthat life sometimes offers.
Suppose I had a purpose,
a neatly packaged reason,
how would you perceive me then?
Oh, sad, it seems,
Inever truly got to know, us.
Thank you.
It life was.
Asimple statement,
a breath held,
a moment that was.
This is the self,
the official notice,
a declaration without fanfare,
a quiet acknowledgmentof what is,
and what might have been.
The body,
a temporary harbor,
carrying the cargo of existence,
unlabeled, unassigned,
just present.
The questions linger,
like sea mist on a forgotten coast,
unanswered, unresolvable,
part of the fabric,
woven into the stillness.
And if purpose were a compass,
pointing north,
would the journey feel different?
Would the landscape of the soulshift its contours?
Perhaps.
But the truth, as it stands,
is this simple unfolding,
this continuous becoming,
without preamble,
without grand design.
We are here,
in this moment,
this quiet observation.
The self,
a silent witness,
to the ebb and flow,
the rise and fall,
the gentle current of being.
No flags flying,
no anchors dropped,
just the steady rhythm,
the breath in, the breath out.
This is the notice,
delivered internally,
a personal missive,
to the solitary inhabitant,
of this enclosed world.
And the questions,
they are the tides,
pulling and pushing,
shaping the shore,
of what we believe we know.
If seeing were believing,
then sight itself would be the answer,
a blinding revelation.
But the darkness holds its own truths,
a comfort in its mystery,
a quiet understanding.
The body,
a landscape painted with the light of experience,
the shadows of regret,
the vibrant hues of joy.
And the interests,
the small fires,
flickering in the periphery,
of this vast and open field.
Purpose, a notion,
a word spoken in the wind,
how would you chart the starsif the sky itself were the map?
Oh, the ache of what was missed,
the connections unmade,
the hands that never clasped.
We are in this space,
a gentle unfolding,
a quiet descent,
into the awareness of now.
Thank you,
for the simple fact,
that life was.
Atestament,
a whisper,
a breath.
This is the official notice,
for the self,
by the self,
a solitary declaration,
of being,
without apology,
without explanation,
just the simple, profound,
fact of existence.
The body,
a boat without a destination,
sailing on an ocean of unknowns,
guided by an inner compass,
yet to be fully calibrated.
And the endless why,
a refrain sung by the wind,
a song that never finds its chorus,
lost in the vastness,
of a sky that offers no reply.
If clarity were a lens,
Iwould adjust the focus,
sharpen the edges,
bring the distant into sharp relief.

rap soul suddle voice bassline  trap high hats