Have you ever met a beautiful soul whose fate
rendered them useless
60 years too soon?
Who, like the moon, had a gravitational pull
strong enough to move mountains? With a voice
so gentle and full, that it could lull the world to sleep?

If you have, you should know
how that creeping notion grows until you’re
entrapped
in an infinite web
of why them and not me’s. No self-fabricated answers
can remedy the craving
for a finite explanation.

I yearn for an idea, though
a meaning would be preferred.
Like a dictionary definition, a simple collection of words,
to sum up
why
I’M still here.