I stand, lost, upon the brink,
Staring through holes on this critter's face,
Woken, decades ago from the slumber of naught,
Dressed in a body with a name and face,
And pushed, unwilling, into this strange existence,
And before I can discover what's what,
To learn the way to live and reflect,
I'm pushed again, now by the speed of the crowd,
Into the realm of the so-called real,
Forced to run by the fuel of fear,
A dread of starvation, of pain and death,
I run, unwilling, in the race of men,
A race not to win, but to avoid being trampled,
And while I run, I turn and stare,
At those around, who dash, oblivious,
And while we sprint thus, tired and breathless,
Time gallops ahead, forever in the lead,
To catch my breath I stop and bend,
And see a pattern, a distinct trend,
‘Tseems familiar until watched with care,
Like the strangeness of the letters that make our words,
Life’s a thing sans name or form,
A blank sheet with some dots, to draw upon,
To fill with shades of colours we choose,
And space to use the way we please,
It’s a simple design when you observe, aware,
A pattern that repeats, strangely symmetric,
A construct that defines beauty, irony and honour,
And shows what you’ll find and where,
It’s a case of a feature buried in its opposite,
Of honour hidden deep within shame,
Of greatness in the subdued,
And unseen beauty in the ordinary,
Of philosophy and logic on full stomachs,
And of irrationality when driven by hatred or desire,
Of surprise behind the curtain of seeming knowledge,
Of love behind utter hatred,
Of noblest intentions behind unfriendly face,
And of great ones’ fall from grace,
Of happy ones bestowed with short lives,
And of those in pain, cursed to live long,
And while death is certainly the inevitable end,
We’re also forced to live and fend,
Life’s blank and untouched, yes,
But it crumbles when unattached to purpose,
And so, to avoid the hell that kills will to live,
Our hands are forced to forge life into meaning,
We’re not rational beings as we claim to be,
And while reason’s a language society approves,
We function, truly, on emotion besides hormones’ rage,
And forge reasons for our simplest acts,
And so we must live our lives,
Terrible lies, though they may be,
Feigning understanding of all that’s around,
And feigning pleasure at acquired tastes,
Falling in love with a maiden pretty,
Deeming sacred, a feeling petty,
We add more to our assumed purpose,
And live, aligned to that of hers,
I learn, as my beards turned grey,
That the least I can lie is to myself,
Accepting all that cannot be,
And choosing to live, forced, ‘til I drop dead,
And as the hooves of truth pursue my tread,
Threatening to sever hope’s thread,
Clinging dearly onto the armour of hope,
Choosing to resist my fall to purposeless abyss,
For I see, now, that the inevitable shall come,
But to live these days I’m forced,
I learn to give in, to life, not death,
Not to fight, but to cease to resist life.
