Life,
The four letter word that breeds new possibility with every escape of the mouth.
The illusion of created matter fluttering which ever way,
Taking the shapes of new forms but impossibly diceitful if it's all the same to you, really.
Life,
Oh, is that what you call it?
The birthing canal, the test-drive, the labryinth.
The uncurable dicease, like bleeding sores after entering a forest you probably should have avoided.
Those sores, those sores, those uncurable sores!
I'm covered in sores and you folks call this life.
Scratching the surface only makes it worse.
Diving in deep, the depths,
Black and blue because the insides are bruised, too, is the only way out.
Last night, or maybe last year, or maybe a past life,
If it's all the same to you, really,
I froze in fear like the look on a fishes scaly, wet face when he realizes what's to come of him and this hook in his mouth.
My immediate reaction was to vacate immediately.
But what do I fear? What am I trying to vacate?
Oh, right,
It's only me.
-Mae.B
