Mortal Song

The song of life resides inside a bird,
It permeates the world yet seldom heard,
A haunting song, and yet so full of mirth,
A mirth which is so beautifully absurd.

Upon the tree of life the songbird sings,
And to our tiny twig its music brings,
Our twig will fall before the sprawling tree,
It’s not for us the songbird flaps its wings.

And there it is, this lovely little lie,
That everything was made for you and I,
That in this world we dance the center stage,
That we should live, when everything must die.

I ponder this beneath the veils of night,
My laughter breaks the spell and takes to flight
Then with the wails and cries sails through the stars
Whose shine, after we’re gone, will be as bright.

Though do not be desponded, nor forlorn,
When musing on the day this life is torn,
Our tales of the beyond reflect our fears
Which plague the dead no more than the unborn.

Life is whim, a laugh, a shout, a cry,
A symphony, then one nostalgic sigh,
Of course I pray, but only to myself,
For courage when I smile to say goodbye

And if somewhere beyond there is a god,
Who out of darkness all of this has brought,
He surely has abandoned us for good,
for otherwise his hands drip with Our blood.

We made this god, this scarecrow of extremes,
We authored hell from pain and mortal screams,
And heaven too, we tailored from ourselves,
They all exist – on earth, and in our dreams 

Do not seek love from some celestial father,
Our only kin is with our earthly mother,
A kinship that for lowly lies is severed,
if we want love then we must love each other. 

And yet I hope it burns inside you strong,
That chilling question – “what if I am wrong?”
I’ll ponder it, but you must do the same,
And all the while the bird will sing its song.

The melody is primal yet unknown,
There are no lyrics, we must write our own,
And sing it true, for it makes up our souls,
Abandoned, yet together not alone.

By where the blazing sunset meets the land,
That distant point we’ll never understand
Which fills us full of wonder, fear and joy,
And burns into our core this mortal brand.

gene16180

My muse can be unseemly and nomadic although she fancies meter and good rhyme, her diligence and output are sporadic, and some may say she’s moving past her prime. At times she’s off consorting with the sages reflecting on existence, as it were, At...

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