Sometimes I’m like that cat
Alone in the box.
Am I alive
Or am I dead.
Waiting for somebody, anybody
To open the box,
To interact
And look inside.
What if I’m dead?
That wouldn’t be the best.
Or would it?
No more mystery
And I’d be out of the box.
Somebody would know.
Therefore my existence,
Even in death,
Would be validated.
What if they look inside
And I’m alive?
That would be good -
Wouldn’t it?
I’d be able to talk to someone.
I’d be out of the box.
It would be nice -
As long as I had the choice
To get back in the box
Whenever I needed to.
As politicians moisten their lips
And prepare periodic messages
To chasten questioners.
Their febrile speeches leave wanting
Those with open eyes.
And merely catapult words not actions
Into gaping political holes.
Tearing sanguine thoughts
From confused minds.
Leaving strong perceptions flaccid
And hearts to hang pendulous -
Broken and deceived.
When all that is required
From these pouting lips
Is some truth to hold on to
In these times of strife.