A passing wind, the likeliness of man
our scientists with microscopes do pry -
not arduous since they can clone a lamb!
If man is such a god, why does he die?
We worship singers, artists; call their name
then mourn when pills, collisions, stop them short.
Our memories held with tributes, posts in vain,
so much potential for...; or so we thought.
A whisked low breath elapsing as on cue.
We steal, we cheat, we hurt, we heal, we say -
if only then! Before the big hand drew
my heart, my soul, would live in better ways.
Our lungs expand to suck another breath,
We’re halfway there, releasing to our death.
