An unglamorous life.
The difficult, unavoidable, and painful
circumstances of human existence.
Removed from the realm of nature,
to survive without adding to the horror,
often is the best we can do.
The beasts live in truth,
we in contradiction.
The art of life,
both comical and tragic,
is simply the passion to exist.
Exist in harmony,
like the beasts.
To be human is to,
construct and destroy,
both dream and memory.
we butcher the passion of life,
in the act of living as a human.
No one likes to speak of it,
but sometimes people die old and alone.
Isolated and abandoned they slowly decay,
under the weight of time,
or kill themselves.
Friends and neighbours,
reduced to ghosts,
shadowy images on the TV.
Their voices silenced for days,
their world confined to an empty apartment.
A tomb for the living,
made of blood, bone, plaster and glass.
They wait for death.
Pills on the bed side table,
they exist while the days slip by unnoticed.