LifeThis is life.
It is neither a shore, nor a clown with orange hair.
It is not frightening, like an electric chair -
Burning the nerves through and through,
Without any care.
It is clairvoyant,
Lying to us at every sidewalk.
Preaching it's theories of faith,
Even though it never came across God.
Or came close to salvation.
This must be life.
It is neither short-lived, nor a silent film.
It is but an injection in the deepest of our veins,
Fooling us into a wheelchair,
While we can still fly.
It is a witch,
Cursing it's own child at midnight.
Branded, praised, then pushed aside,
Like some lunatic locked in an asylum.
While that's the only sane place.
This is life.
It is neither a rock, nor a man imprisoned.
It is not lethal, like most things are -
Not killing your essence slowly, with medicine,
Because it doesn't care enough.
And why should it?
Poetry by FrancescaLuca
Read 694 times
Written on 2012-04-05 at 11:23
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