Flower
Dear flower,
What is the purpose of Life
If it were not for the emptiness of death
That could answer?
Why do I seek to be satisfied
If it were not for the fear of hell—
That we may never experience such pleasures
Of love and bliss?
But nay! Tell me:
What of the fiery and death
That thou bask and glorify in—
The Sun—a sphere of fire?
How can one seek pain and call himself 'live,
As to care for family and Wife,
And yet be utterly numb inside?
Rising toward agony!
Do thou not flinch at the site of filth
Nor turn away at the stench of flesh,
Unless wind blow thee 'round?
Do thou not cry as thy children are consum'd
Nor ponder the feeling of loss,
Unless Nature's rain chance?
Is it so paradoxical to be 'live and dead
That it is pleasurable to love and kill,
And live contently with a heart torn?
Then beauty should cease,
As we do not possess any compassion
To live nobly,
As we bask in suffering.
I asked, what is the purpose for being alive
If it were not for the emptiness of death?
Thou hath failed to answer
A testament of being dead.
