we live on
only to find
out
that life
is not life
not the one we expected
at least.

alive in our thoughts
sometimes
but mostly
we're dead
not soon enough
perhaps.

if only we'd grasp
what's really going on
but
then again
what would
be left
then
of life
or death?

we're a nation
who loves to yack about the weather.

why?

we can't change it

i love you

not one to one
but everything
that ever was

souls touch
connected
by a deep connection

to something
other
than
self

you,
or i
everything
we ever were.

i wake up
to a world gone mad
violence, addiction, greed

trying to make sense
is a death dealing experience
madness

the only way to be
is to be
100%
who we were born
of our mother

and then to craft something
magnificent
alive
birthed by love

and to pay homage
to the fact
that we're here
amongst the madness
to be madder than all the rest.

doomed to die
without ever bleeding
out
let alone
opening
our hearts.

we ****. at life.
we can't get a handle what it is
to live
(or even)
to die?

we run scared like little children
lost
in our own
steady
inevitable decline.

is it any wonder
so many
check
out.

Only time will tell
if we make the breakthrough
from one half
to another
where the light
shines to a space
fantastic
with creation
with realisation
immune
to falsification
to something that never
was
not in this life or
the next.

we go from day to day
half expecting
things to change
by some miracle of...luck
but in the end
one day, always
like the next
call that life
no,
an early death.

a caged bird
that's never found
its voice
let alone
flapped its wings.

A cry for help
a tearful wave
nothing reaches us
dead
from a life spent pleasing
all and everyone
without questioning
why
we should be so naive
to not even try
to understand
why
we were born to live
and die
without ever understanding
why, why, why.