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.