Perfect, the inhalation,
the imbibing of time’s surrender,
and our slow ascending that ladder
to the top and end of breath.
Heart beats in dutiful rhythm,
its ecliptic churning of the river
that feeds the flesh,
keeps minds coherent on the journey.
We are but flesh and blood,
with sentient minds to confuse our fate,
choices made and sufferance accepted,
as we are battered by our own ignorance.
Shags upon a rock of our choosing,
vivid dreams in lucid recall,
plunder reality and unleash our visions
of what life is and how we attest it.
Each a singular view,
a singular suffering and pain,
victim or adversary we choose or blame,
of our wretched lives of sorrow and joy.
What dream is a dream and what reality, true,
no-one knows, tis confusing,
and we still endure, focus on empty pursuits,
furnish ourselves with vestural plumes.
Yet life moves and time swallows all,
and soon the memories fade
unknowing of our fate our state,
we assume in belief to know.
But we know nothing,
perhaps we are nothing at all,
beyond a program, a holograph of imperfection,
like a game for higher minds to implore.
Vessels of experience,
of assumed knowledge,
in feeble skin and bone attire,
wondering around trying to find ourselves.
How we must look,
to those who gaze upon our cartoon like existence,
wondering why we go back and forth,
like Tetris, trying to fit into spaces we don’t understand.
Tony DeLorger © 2016
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