Four shots of ***
Then I write
Grandiose, I soliloquise
And my pen tracks across the page
Talking of being forgotten
As they themselves shall be
Then, my mind afire, and exhausted
I collapse, into the oblivion of sleep
This is but practice for death
I wake, and the process begins anew

I came, or was ******
Into the world
A half formed thing
I have limped through life
The waters of the universe
Slip through my fingers
I cannot cup my left hand
To catch the falling stars
Nor have I, all my brain
With which to comprehend
The nothing, that is our existence
I have existed, set back
Striving, for chances
To be, the same
I have thrown away
Gold gilt books, of wisdom
And sweet fruits of life
To follow others, to rot
And ruination, to be in company
To feel normal, and be not alone

I am a chance
Standing on the back of great improbability
Formed by sheer coincidence
And the random vastness of the universe
Yet I am supposed to
Believe?
In meaning, purpose, no
How may I?
My very essence
What mystics call a soul
Is but the product
Of a million, random
Bizzare happenings
That impressed themselves
Forcefully upon my psyche
How then, if this, is 'life'
May I believe
In meaning, or purpose
How, I wonder

The raindrops touch, my skin
And then are gone, absorbed
To be dead
Until I sweat, or ****
Or weep bitter tears
I wonder, what they witnessed
Created in high, tumultuous clouds
To fall, to fall amidst
Lightning and thunder
To experience such
Only to die, mere feet
From the earth
Because of one, such as I

The grass is wet
Drops of rain, clinging
To each lolling blade
Like minute universes
Trees, all purple, like a swollen bruise
Or overripe fruit
Bit into, to cascade juices down
The chin of one, who sups upon
The pulpy flesh
And drinks, the juice of life
I fade, and flicker
Far away, and held fast
By that simple majesty
I see in nature
In this wet grass
I see, time's endless passage
Emerald green, vibrant grass
Here, and there, is scattered
All about, with leaves
Withered, brown, old
Marking time's voyage onward
Ravaged, by the passing moments
They do not even blow
Or flutter in the wind
As they did when they
Were green, on summer day
But rest, or are all dead
And will not stir
For what might stir now
The old and decayed
No touch of green upon them
Nay, they will not stir

In this empty space
Sitting on my bench
I am acutely aware
That I am alone
How long then
Since I felt
The fiery confusion, of fumbling kiss
Or many small ecstasies
Wrought by another's hand?
How long then since
In some shared space
With precious little between
Yet still we tried
To close any space
And in this, there was
Fire, and ice, calm, and excitement
How long then, since?
I cannot recall