Contemplating Death

The Labyrinth

From the yawning dawn,

to the blackness before sleep;

mankind weaves his web.

No greater maze is built,

than the one we create for ourselves;

it is called: routine.

Caught up in this convoluted mess,

we all believe we deserve something better,

but we go about our business,

doing the same things, the same way.

The complexity, the sheer irony;

we were taught as children one way,

hoping as we grew, something would be different.

We cannot live without the basics:

food, shelter, clothes, a job.

But what of the future?

We are all trapped into one way of thinking,

“… it can’t happen to me.”

Guess what?

The winters are longer … summer’s shorter.

The whales are dying.

The ozone-layer is getting thinner.

Nuclear waste is everywhere.

Lakes, rivers, oceans, all polluted by man.

Crime in the street,

crime in the home.

Right to life, the right to die;

a personal choice for some,

while others have no choice at all.

The hungry stay hungry and die,

the homeless stay homeless and ignored.

Everyone reads the paper, watches the nightly news,

hearing the plight of the forlorn, saying,

“It’s terrible.”

“Something should be done.”

When asked to help, the reply comes out,

“I’m one person, I can’t do it all.”

Life is a vicious circle,

one lifestyle condemning another,

tangled in their own maze;

going nowhere the best way they know how.

Each blistering sunrise,

every crashing sunset,

finds me caught in the midst of dark day,

screaming, clawing at my soul;

searching for a way away from myself,

lost on a road without direction.

… what is there left to choose from?

No different from the rest of the world,

I live in a crusted shell called flesh,

breathing stale air,

waiting out the moments for my changes to come,

but they never do.

I cry invisible tears,

begging for the hour of my death.

… when, I weep, when?