Okay

Life is meaningless. Okay.
And each must end in death.
We know. And, as we work
To pass the time, we may,
As you would have me do,
Read novels, written by
Embittered souls, who say,
With false bravado and with
Leaden humor, how they've
Come to terms with this, though
They don't wish it so. Or we
Could work the wish, instead,
And praise a god, I'll let you
Choose, and exit here in
Business suits, our sights
Set on attainment of, well,
All the things which constitute
For those who do, and do
Not read, the trappings of
Success...Yet, still we'd die,
And still, somewhere within
Our neurons, know that life
Is meaningless. That bothers
You. It doesn't me, and that
Is why I have no urge to read
Your novels or to change my
Clothes and exit here.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 17 times
Written on 2012-06-23 at 13:42

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