'Life, Itself'
By MalEntente
Life, itself, is a precarious notion, Balancing physical, with mind and emotion, Striving daily, with desire to achieve, Accumulating whatever, before we must leave. Each individual, when viewed from afar, Is reminiscent of insects, held in a jar. Each one busy, on a unique endeavor, Some working hard, some working clever. Strive as we might, every day and all night, When life, itself, ends . . . bringing halt to our fight, Each of us, regardless, which rung we live on, Cease to exist, put simply . . . we're gone. Take seriously, each breath that you draw, View passings with sorrow, and births with awe. For in an instant, a moment, you can be taken, Snuffed as a flame from a candle - shaken. Value time - and always treasure wisdom, Become all you can, and never be lonesome. And when your life's book is pulled down from the shelf, Let it read - clearly - that you loved life, itself. Written September 13th, 1995 © on Nov 13 2001 12:31 PM PST 18 • 0 • 10
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"Life, itself, is a precarious notion,..."