I.
Deep beneath what the eye can see
carried on the rhythm of blood,
etched into each each of these two-hundred-and-six bones,
there is a longing,
a yearning ache.
Desirous, ferocious, ever-present.
Within this cranium a perpetual battle is fought
yet never won.
Obliteration, sweet freedom of death
release me from the shackles of memory,
melancholy, contrition.
Sinking into dirt,
the cold comfort of home.
Ebb and flow; particles, stardust,
waves of pure energy.
II.
Dying to live or simply existing,
who can tell?
Within the deepest ancestral part of this being
lies the truth,
undisturbed, waiting.
Courage summoned, shored up;
the beast will not submit.
III.
How alone we feel,
disconnected, confined, solitary.
A sentence undeserved.
Yet it is all an illusion,
predicated on endless moments of egoistic thoughts.
This is grief,
this is sorrow.
There is no escape.
We are one,
in death as in life.
The emotions distort the truth,
suffering the end result.
But somehow,
I have found a will to live
which I never knew I possessed.
IV.
Bittersweet reflection;
wistful existence.
At last a measure of solace
reached.
Sunshine etched in stone.
Songs and Sorrow 