Been thinking on and off ’bout love and death
Do either exist, or like life, are they
Hard to pin down? Maybe life is a myth
Or just a word that our egos obey
Our life comes from the fire and rock and play
Of subatomic particles, all dead
From that viewpoint we’re all still space like they
Although they create patterns in our head
That we enjoy awhile but then the dread
Develops. Love has gone, and even breath
Is shortening like hair that’s turning grey
Yet when there’s no point getting out of bed
We reach completion, work all done, and stiff
As we may be, that’s where we want to stay
Sat 11 Oct 2008
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