What is this this thing, Life?
This synchronous rhythm, existing only in mind?
This skin made of stardust pulled from the voids of space?
This feeling of a moment by which you are defined?
This beat of a muscle whose manner of starting is still unexplained?
The small hours of a morning where Hope welcomes the new day?
That sensation of beauty and warmth as butterflies flutter by?
A thing of woven experiences, dreams and aspirations – the net of stars over the night sky?
Some bad men now with bad bones and bad minds,
go about unquestioning, unconscious, ignorant and wry.
And what of the Angels, who recognise that the upholding of this unreality
mars the pretence of time.
Thus, we question this thing, life,
this feeling, this glint in one’s eye.
Is it a freight train, perhaps, unstably laden, hurtling down the line?
Its final stop a place called Death, which exists only in mind.