We've all tried every day and all the time
To make sense of a world going nuts,
And it seems by the minute, going more insane.
In our heads growing if possible wearier,
As we go about the little bussiness of our
Very busy lives,
Half-dead or zombie-like
As we go to our little beds
With an unreal sense of not really
Belonging, here and there.
Trying to reach out with full
For any scraps of bread or
Whatever leftover cast us, our little ways.
Pieces of lost puzzleS,
As we all make up, our great and little
Rising as high from the ashes
Where once stired a fire.
We held, against our heart
While all the time, we put on
And donne our superficial
Waiting and everyday hoping
That our time on this earth
Is still not yet, up.
Dorian Petersen Potter