You subsist,
Even when you know
That you know not
What's in store for you
In the time ahead
Other than naught but light.
You exist,
Despite that you think
You're here for naught,
Naught but to be vexed,
Irked, galled and hexed.
You keep on.
You have nothing. But you keep on.
You have no hopes. But you keep on.
The light in the end is exhausting. But you keep on.
You breathe,
You live.
And you want to see,
To see the world,
The good side of it,
The white side of it.
Whilst you keep on
Moving onward,
Leeward and lifeward,
Airward, futureward,
Skyward and spaceward,
You find no good,
No hope in good,
No sample of good
For the sake of good
And you wonder,
'Is this what this is,
How it's meant to be:
Unright, untruth,
Double-plus-ungood?'
And you still ponder,
What if you are the
Interloper, the
Gate-crasher, the
One who's wrong, the
One who's unalike—
Wide of the mark.
You wander on evergoing lugubrous streets you've never frequented before,
Encircled by viridescent pieces of wonder—trees, shrubs, bushes.
You inhale.
The redolence reaches your brain.
The pure air stings your brain.
You freshen.
And wonder, 'what a wonderful world.'
You've been walking for æons,
Aimless,
Knowless.
The first ray of the new day crevices the gloom, promising future.
That's what you feel.
The sun rises up high.
Trees quiver.
Life.
Life pops up
Amidst the roads
No one used to haunt.
Life conquers it.
You await the casual mutt groaning with its slimy muzzle thrusted upon you, ready to raven you in a while.
You await the usual horde of humans you mere do recognise, the ominous looks of which will aim at you, stare at you vindictively.
You feel the zephyr whistling on your neck.
You horripilate.
You hyperventilate.
Confused with aught.
Distracted by aught.
And because you're slender and weak,
You cough from the breeze that hit you.
You tussicate hard.
Something throws out.
You tussicate hard.
Until your good gets out with your own blood.
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