Sta.sh
We are not yet
dead, but the
scientists and
philosophers would
have you believe
that we are dying.
We have rehearsed
the methods of our
creation.
We make muses
from nature and
from each other.
We assume, like the
canyon's high-water mark,
that the floods
will not come.
Who am I
to say that
this is false,
that we have
little particles
that hold us apart-
(we are ever so slightly
levitating off the ground
and from each other.)
And the streets protest
by rehearsing the methods
of our end.
When our blood
turns to alcohol
and the first thing
they see of us
is the white
of our bones.
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by rehearsing the methods
of our end."
Love that bit in particular, it has such an urbane urban quality.
The scene of death lingers on the eyes of the reader,
A choice few will look upon this, and make such a high-pitch laugh,
You wonder if they are insane.
Do not be unaware, for some,' yes are, but the others. . .
Are either stupid, brave, or truly believe that they are ready to die. . .
Just waiting for nonexistence to happen.
Dark clouds crushes the sky,
Yet there is that young man,
Playing a fiddle. . .
People are hysterical, when Death herself approaches.
My question is this:
Are you the man who will try to run from the inevitable swift kill, living a short life of ?
Or the one who will stand tall, ready for execution, hoping she will be merciful, and allow a couple more years of forgiveness, for what others have wronged this planet?
There is but on other way. You fight till your last breath, kicking and screaming all the way. . .
That is up to you to decide. May the odds be ever in your favor