Someone should tell me what life really is.
Someone should tell me if
life should be what
we know it could be.

A garden where all trees dance and sway
under the equal charm of fairly blowing air.
But, the more I envision this, the stranger life becomes,
and under the spell of numbness, my mind falls over and again.

Now I'm lost
deep in the maze of uncanny perplexities,
in and out of strange-looking places
and trailed by intemperate storm daubed with cold frigid.

Could it be less than reasonable
that life should mirror at least a scintilla of my thought?
Or is my mind haunted by a wind gust of hallucination
reeking of psychosis? I don't think so!

Rather, life's shown itself to be darker than
the shadows that blur the purest of eyesights;
a roily water, in the clamps of doom and gloom; yet,
a road thick with mist, rough like a jagged edge of a saw.

How did life get here?
That reprobates lord it over the rest of the world
and whited sepulchers knighted with power and recognition.
Could this really be all that life could be? life could be better.

It could be a planet
where justice grows wings and roams the air,
and humaneness as a school of fishes
that swims freely among the sea of men.