There is No Escape
None of us gets paroled
From the prison cells we lock ourselves into.
So that we all can fit together inside
These jigsaw lives that we lead
Which of course, eventually all blow apart.
We are merely the fragments waiting to be reassembled.
Every moment of thought is but a small drop in time.
Each piece fits the next piece.
Although we may try to avoid,
The murmurs of our own thoughts.
It is our hearts that yawn and awaken slowly
From their long winter night’s sleep.
You and I are mere mortals,
Who dreamt of a life without end.
We are the ones who make up immortality.
For the sake of seeking sweet comforts and sad joys.
This is the story we tell ourselves,
Whilst slumping back to our cells.
August 20, 2017 | Categories: beat, books, comments about poetry, death, Existentialism, Igor Goldkind, literature, new poetry, poetry, spoken word, Transmedia | Tags: art, death, literature, metaphysics, New Poetry | Leave a comment