Life Is Not Special Enough
His life does not feel special enough,
Though it's decorated
With ornaments and smoke
He has collected his life in a box
And is mutely aware that It is not going to last forever, forever...
Words many mouths
Have spoken, now choked,
Dust all of them.
He seeks new thrills again and again
'When will I get there? ' He muses once in a while
'And why aren't you all coming with me?
His address book may be full but his
impoverished heart is closed, closed whatever
Is therein one may never really know
Though feelings surface
He pushes them down again, he simply
Clowns around a last attempt at youth, with
Projects and plans, feelings
No looking back for him, he sees little humans thinking
Only of 'me and mine', and he only just manages
To emulate that 'I'm alright Jack' -
'The sun shines everywhere,
But on me.' He weeps,
He'll run as far as he must to feel free.
Then when his life as he knew it is behind him
And all that he has is running with him on his feet
He opens his empty palms and bends back to the sky
Looking for God at the root of all things.
Only then does he think to ask
'Where are we? '
'Now life' he yells 'Is little more than unspecified time',
'Yet I have surrendered to it, and know that it is now
More than ever