Get busy living or get busy dying
By Kathleen Oakwood
I can hear the birds song,
In a world I feel I don't belong,
I can hear their sacred tune,
The Spring flowers open out in bloom,
I can feel the daytime air,
Blowing a wind through my hair,
Blood flowing in my veins,
Softly spittering glittery rains,
In a black and white colourless place,
Confusion etched upon every face,
Life-like individuals shoulder-hunched tread,
In an other-worldy trance as if they were dead,
This mundane existence where work and sleep,
With a low droning language from tongues speak,
What fun it is to twenty-four-seven all day,
And waiting for every next cheque they pay,
The life lived fast by many who never see it,
And it disappears slowly bit by bit,
To leave behind a dust that was once a human form.