Living; a succession,
Of actions and events,
Of love and delusion,
And their consequence.
Of hope and trust,
Of blunder and fate,
It never concludes,
For it never commenced.
People and places,
Vanish into a labyrinth that astounds;
Belief and imagination,
So intimately bound.
Creativity created,
And the tale still weaves,
With twists, with turns,
And wonder and strife-
Drawing everything that is and exists,
Into a vortex: a whirlwind called life.
It seems so bizarre,
To be living,
Hanging on the brink,
Of such a slight chance.
Life is a word,
That someone defined:
Tell me, if it remained unheard,
Would each breath we take, still keep us alive?
I question who we are,
But slaves of our own making?
Ruled by restrictions,
Created ourselves?
Imprisoned by emotions,
We’ve defined ourselves?
And restricted by time,
We measure ourselves?
Would we die if we were never alive?
Could we sing without knowing music?
Could we see without knowing sight?
And would we be wrong, if we were never right?
Oh, this world is curious,
Disguised as nude,
But in truth is cloaked;
In attempt to elude:
Skeptical minds,
And wandering souls-
For they remain detached,
From her earth: her soil and water,
Instead they seek something deeper,
They tear her apart, not feeling her pain:
They search her for meaning,
Not knowing she has naught,
They remain, as they are:
Unsighted, naïve and condescending.
