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.
Between darkness and light.
My feet are bare and cold,
Yet I am not afraid
As I occasionally step,
Into the unknown waters
Of the river Styx
I heard a story just the other day.
A butterfly flapped her wings
deep in the bamboo forest.
Apparently she cause a hurricane –
He wrote a poem of love and loss
rolled it and sealed it into a bottle
then cast it to the heaving sea.
She read it on a wind-swept beach –
Somewhere near Galilee.
I plucked a rose in autumn’s eve
a warmth it brought into my life,
when chills were hard to keep at bay.
It’s warmth soon failed and colour left –
I buried it in Yandanooka.
He hit her once or twice, early on.
It soon became her cross to bear
through years of servitude.
She slipped a knife between his ribs –
Hidden in bustling Calcutta.
This life, we choose it every day
and make of it, all that we can.
This freedom gives us many things;
Do we always consider the child –
Asleep in Pensacola.