As we sit down to our dinners,
as we open our romance books,
people die.
We sip our water;
their guts spill open.
We study our notes;
their planes crash.
We live;
they die.
We breathe;
they suffocate.
We are testaments to chance,
to luck, to possibility.
We are not products of God.
We are blind goats trotting on our path
before we perish, suddenly,
and vanish into death.
Jun 18, 2018
Jun 18, 2018 at 2:08 PM UTC
As we sit down to our dinners,
as we open our romance books,
people die.
We sip our water;
their guts spill open.
We study our notes;
their planes crash.
We live;
they die.
We breathe;
they suffocate.
We are testaments to chance,
to luck, to possibility.
We are not products of God.
We are blind goats trotting on our path
before we perish, suddenly,
and vanish into death.