If poetry is all about being human,
tell me: what is life worth?
For every Shakespearean verse
appears another, less rehearsed.
If our race has no end,
tell me: where are we running to?
Life is in the journey,
or so say
those less traversed.
Perhaps the truth lies
within ourselves.
Our own deceiving silver tongues
and two-faced cries for help.
If we just keep on writing
will the words mean something
else?
Or maybe if we stop thinking
we'll free ourselves from hell.
The stroke of pen on paper.
The slicing of a throat.
Maybe being human
involves a bit of both.
As for I,
I'll keep on running:
barefoot towards the coast.
Yet the castle in the sky will be my final
au revoir.

[ARH]