Ritual [disturbing images, suicide]

As Occam's Razor cuts into my veins
and faith bleeds out, a crimson rivulet,
belief dries up. What little still remains
is ritual I struggle to forget.

Old habits, tired, threadbare and well worn,
refuse all my attempts. I am indeed
as pious as I've been since I've been born,
an empty grail devoid of call or creed.

It's not the most original of sins,
this emptiness, and others of my kind,
as doubt creeps in and questioning begins,
confine it to a recess of the mind.

There it will grow, apparently benign
until it overwhelms every defense,
and miracles, once lustrous, lose their shine.
Your life, as it turns turns out, is a pretense.

The universe may seek observant souls
but it's wholly indifferent to our fate.
No playwright to assign us to our roles;
no checklist to confirm against some slate.

The simplest explanation, and it fits:
all that there's ever been, shall ever be:
a quanta forced to choose between two slits
one day it chooses you; another, me.