The Way of Things
Too many of us bury ourselves under smiles,
believing in the flat happiness
of dollar bills,
exchanging recipes on Saturdays,
only to think about god on Sundays,
or getting red faced from arguing
about politics,
without ever realizing it's all a mirage,
and as the sand slips through our fingers
we accept that as the way of things,
instead of seeing the desert bones,
more alive with their past failures
than the dancing flames
of more birthday cake candles,
darkening the world with lies
about how the best is yet to come.
One day,
there'll be no more beers
at midnight, no more
waking up at 3 AM
hearing your kid cough,
no more staring out a window
at fresh snow, promising
yourself to paint it
into a picture later,
only to never do it, no more
cracked lips, too sore to kiss,
no more love poems
written haphazardly,
just to lazily become death poems
years later, and the knowledge
of what was lost won't be enough
to give life to a ghost.
Reads like I feel.
Thanks, I think.