Not—A Scientific Life
Life
Is a matter of twenty-four hour
Everyday venture
Of finding
Something that is not found
Life
Is a moment frozen in space
Forbidden and phenomenal
An erratum—
Of a breathing planet
Life
Is a defective time-machine
The start where it stopped
The stop where it started
Only to appear again
At your twelve o'clock mark
With zero displacement
Life
Is to give meaning
Of everything meaningless
To clothe
Every thought bare-dressed
To escape the natural
And make it inexplicable
Life
Is not just a word
Nor a term supported by definitions
'Tis to be living
To be definite
Life
Is not Science
Not created, nor destroyed
Like an atom
Thou, parents give birth—
Not life
Life
Is repetitive
In uniform circular motion
Thus, constant
And is hindered
By a natural force—
Death
But Life
Isn't ended by Death
Just a comma,
A slight pause
Forever it continues
And is taken care
By suceeding generations
A cell dies—
But the Legacy goes on
'Side people's minds
So leave
With such dignity
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YOU ARE READING
The Passionate Corpse
PoetryCorpses are gross, dirty and foul-smelling. At times, they're scary to look at. But curiousity enthralls upon something unpleasant. Amidst the ugliness, it satisfies the dark part of our soul-not meant to be human. Something about it is unnatural...
