Why do we live our days dying,
Breaking, doubting, slaving, and lying?
Growing older in death, burrowing when we should be flying?
Carried through our motions like the leaves of autumn,
Mindless, purposeless, lifeless?
Brittle and frigid, grey and rigid,
Cold to the touch and unresponsive to imagination’s sweet caress?
The sense of none found in everything,
The depths so shallow, the full so empty,
Life inconceivable, the gates barred and warded by cautious sentry.
Oh, why do we choose to live our days in death when life stirs us each dawn?

Do we think we die each day in our living,
Loving, hurting, helping, and believing?
Youth and wisdom found in each search we open?
A world awash with color, painted with the shades of the heart
Would Picasso paint in squalor, brilliance of perception apart?
Of trades of honor, born of but not confined to visions of flying men,
The beauty of valor, discovery, curiosity, abandon, despair and knowing that you can?
The infinite unraveled from the single moment,
Forever etched onto the fluttering, flaky wings of now.
A kaleidoscope of possibility,
Limited only by the fears we breathe in when we decide to die,
Why do we think we might die if we begin to live?