No Illusions

It’s easy to be a naïve idealist Eyes wide shut,

calling every wound a gift

It’s easy to be a cynical realist Tear the map,

laugh at anyone who still exists But it’s another thing entirely To

have no illusions left And still keep something living in you

Still keep something living in you

He stands half in the dark,

half in the blue

Night at his back,

open water in view No costume,

no script, no convenient lie

Just muscle and silence and a question in the eye

They sold him heaven in a painted sky

Then sold him ruin when the paint started to dry

Now he knows both shops were running the same game Same merchants,

different names

So he dropped the story and kept the heat anyway

Not hope as

a drug

—

Warmth as a choice he makes every day

Naive says the tide will part if you believe

Cynic says the tide don’t care and never did

He watches both and neither gets the last word

He learned the difference between seeing and being stirred The light on

the horizon ain’t a promise or a trick

It’s just proof that something still refuses to quit

He carries his own version in the chest,

not the mouth Doesn’t preach it,

doesn’t hide it, doesn’t need a crowd Some nights it flickers.

Some nights it fills the room.

He never asked it to be pretty.

He only asked it not to leave.

No illusions means you stop decorating the wound

Still keeping the heat means you don’t become the tomb

You can name the machine and still refuse to rust

You can know the ending and still love the dust

It’s easy to be a naïve idealist Eyes wide shut,

calling every wound a gift It’s easy to be a cynical realist

Tear the map, laugh at anyone who still exists

But it’s another thing entirely

To have no illusions left

And still keep something living in you Still keep something living in

you

The water doesn’t blink.

The dark doesn’t move.

The small light stays small.

He stays anyway.