Life.

Second to second it's a mystery.

A secret garden of roses at times.

A highway to hell in others.

Strangers that are strange.

Friends and family even stranger and more obscure.

Faces that disappear into the quicksand.

Marionetted Pinocchio's lies, their truth.

A cardboard box, the homeless.

Passers by act as if they are invisible.

Carnage of war, parent's and children's bloodshed.

Peace, a thing that will never be.

So what's it all about?

These "lessons" we are allegedly... supposedly... to learn from.

Even that garden of roses has thorns.

When "it's over" is it over?

Do I waft around aimlessly some misty foggy figure?

Do I decompose and fertilize the land?

Is there a purpose for me sitting in this chair?

Is there a purpose for me writing this piece?

Smile to frown takes but a split second.

Reality is I am but mere dust in the wind.

Reality is that bed of roses has been over watered by tears and the sadness of which is called "life".

I'm here right now, today for some purpose?

Perhaps my purpose runs out today, who is to say?

It's deeper than the deepest ocean.

This is not for the surface thinker.

The bowl of cherries thinker, the life is but a dream sweetheart thinker.

I'm the heavy guy on that see saw right now.