Are we then all existentialists
hopeless travellers over life-time?
are we being absurd ,as life seems to be empty
bereft of content and all that's deemed sublime?

time is worse than an executor
who  kills but once--it clings to the flesh--nothing does it relish
it festers and speaks no kind words
only that humans are born to perish


transient is human joy
brittle is its hope
old age creeps in too soon
(it's hard for existentialists to cope)

the waiting
the sighing
the heaving
the suffocating

the questioning
the doubting
the monotonous and inane grinding
which all seems to know no ending

but we are all existentialists anyhow
bearing the cross of being in the here and now