I cannot say what makes me live.
When I walk I trudge like a vacant ghost
not quite here
but nowhere else.
And yet, the world seems the same-
the sky still breathes golden beams
too beautiful to see
in the painful evening
when all else is dead
all else is dead
but the sky and I
are not.
The trees are stubborn.
They grow like how children should
when they are not cut down before
the tears dry on their faces
They do not bother with
the waifs left behind-
like me
We are still alive,
the trees and I.
The grass outside, it whispers.
It has seen those who run at it
but not run to it,
arms thrown open,
like to salvation.
The grass’ lover is bent in the fence
our love is dead
but we are not.
The lake laughs outside the walls
It moans also, like it too
has ripped open its heart and spilled no blood
It sighs when the day is done
and the shouting stops
to turn to weeping.

I cannot say what makes me live.
The sky still breathes golden beams
too beautiful to see
in the painful evening
when all else is dead
all else is dead
but the sky
and I
are not.