Of Life

Of life,

We all hang in separate branches,

Yet share the same old tree,

Differentiated products in equal-sized batches

Of the assembly line that led me to thee.

A fresh crisp grasp of reality,

Consummates the experience into a wonderful memory,

The omnipresence of a Mother’s love

Ignored by the desire of illusory celebrity.

The magic of the World turns life into prose,

A book we once hastily opened,

But must sometime reluctantly close.

The symphony of voices,

The mosaic of faces,

Is the museum of life

A collection of worthwhile chases?

A verse in Life is empty,

Without a hand to hold.

The paper on which life’s poetry is written,

Once invaluable, is now regrettably being sold.