Outlandish
it is how people think of it—
living, I
mean;
on some
sunlit afternoon
as we pursue
the fantasies of life
with no time
to reflect on loneliness or fecundity,
it strikes us as beautiful.
Like the
delicate green on a stone-strewn pool
our faces sweetly touched by the air and the cool water
rise and
shine as they float in that inviting
stream of ecstasy
and ruin,
and we feel relieved
to be alive and living.
But there
are times too
when the frail
arms of life,
ever so
weary of the enervating stretch
and having had enough of catching the sun
in empty
bowls,
howl…enough
is enough.
And yet at end
of the storm,
the fly caught in coffee dregs is finally relieved;
its agglutinated wings been dried by the air exhaled from some
invisible mouth,
it is able to
fly once more
in the
full-throttled light of the world
contented:
to be living a life for itself.
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