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gary-l-mischPoems
Let us render clear, The vital items Of our lives, Not the things of pleasure, But those things without which We may find ourselves expired, Or at least severe impaired, Beyond Those things that are The sustenance of life, There is a list that can be made, Food, Water, Air, The last is mostly critical for its Oxygen, What if we were to lose An equally critical component, The oxygen of our life, Not the O2, That mixes with the nitrogen We breathe, But that very something that Sustains our soul, That very life line That many of us must have. True, Some are more tightly Interwoven with it than others, For some it is Like unto the umbilical cord, As critical as that to which we cleaved Within the womb, Without it we wither. What is it? For some it is a place, For some a drug, For others A person, For all, A vital element, Defined only by us As individuals - involuntarily, The level of criticality unknown, Until it is lost, Whereby we are, Perhaps for the first time, Truly working without a net, Or a sense of direction, And we begin slow suffocation, Not of the lungs, But of a different kind, A drowning of the mind and soul, For, Without that special oxygen, Whatever, Or whoever it may be, That beacon, Like unto a horizon reference, We are slowly, But surely, Unmade.
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Oct 11, 2011
Oct 11, 2011 at 8:51 PM UTC
The Metaphysics of Breathing
Let us render clear, The vital items Of our lives, Not the things of pleasure, But those things without which We may find ourselves expired, Or at least severe impaired, Beyond Those things that are The sustenance of life, There is a list that can be made, Food, Water, Air, The last is mostly critical for its Oxygen, What if we were to lose An equally critical component, The oxygen of our life, Not the O2, That mixes with the nitrogen We breathe, But that very something that Sustains our soul, That very life line That many of us must have. True, Some are more tightly Interwoven with it than others, For some it is Like unto the umbilical cord, As critical as that to which we cleaved Within the womb, Without it we wither. What is it? For some it is a place, For some a drug, For others A person, For all, A vital element, Defined only by us As individuals - involuntarily, The level of criticality unknown, Until it is lost, Whereby we are, Perhaps for the first time, Truly working without a net, Or a sense of direction, And we begin slow suffocation, Not of the lungs, But of a different kind, A drowning of the mind and soul, For, Without that special oxygen, Whatever, Or whoever it may be, That beacon, Like unto a horizon reference, We are slowly, But surely, Unmade.
gary-l-misch
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gary-l-misch
American
Oct 11, 2011
Oct 11, 2011 at 8:51 PM UTC
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