Written by Vincent Zulawski
From one line to the next
I hear crows in a murder outside
Embodying my thoughts as I chase them away
They grow silent.
A mirage is but this life, and perhaps the next…
Must give us pause,
For what to do with the time at hand,
Shall reveal itself as right
Check, check, checking those boxes
Those houses, we inhabit,
And whether a burglar or a bandit
Written in tongues of Latin or Sanskrit
We seek refuge in comfort and in sepulcher.
Without which a void is made
The etchings on our tombs may
Diminish into unimportance, fading like ink
Written on a plastic womb.