There was a beginning.

I was stringing.
There were threads,
but there was something simply dead.
I can't say I had any idea
of its permanent location.

What are we to say of any deceased?
Is there something to observe
about those whom have failed at living?

But it's the ultimate goal.
If a pearl exists within the oyster,
it breathes nonexistent
persistently.

The difference between fear and sadness
is some blurry line.

If happiness is there,
why do I not cognisize
what it takes to epitomize?

The oyster sits.
I will wait.
Life will hate
at altruistic bait.