Inconsistent

The sickening realization
As you embrace the meaninglessness
In all of its forms.
Knowing that nothing
Can save you from the fading.

The weak comforts of men
And man's petty belief
In their power.
Salvation from a child
Is folly.
They are but some random likeness
To your physical composition.

Your seed is in our thoughts,
Your immortality
Dies in the memory of men.
Though pitiless poor is your chance
To have ever achieved it.

And in the end,
A bitter merciless joke
Like all notions,
Attempt is vain.
We are only
What we are not.

Yet herein lies the paradox
That in this manifestation
There is form.
And for form
There must be property.

So a question still remains:
Why should absence
Be possessed of this property?