are we more than the brittle
bones that occupy
our lonely vessels?
they bob up and down
aimlessly, like forgotten buoys
littered across this vast
deep blue sea;

you call it life,
i tend to lean towards:
the subjection
of the 5 senses

you and i are fragmented
wholes, divided into a million
and one categories

and somehow, i don't feel
as lost as i used to be

the air pushes it's way
out of the womb, it takes
the shape of something
soft, warm and vulnerable

it cries when surrounded
by nothing

it coos when everything
satisfies it's hunger

and who's to say
it's time is up?

those bones, like our bones,
will grow old and turn to dust

lovely, it is
for cause and effect
to have mercy on us