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Life is a beautiful waste of time

Oh the gods who create;
Why place such climax upon us
Where the last rung in the ladder of existence
Is to not.
Why does breath enter this being,
In order for one moment,
to not
Why does blood rush,
To come to a stop
The clock rests, counting down the moment to -

But we continue,
The elusive last breath
Stretching, encapsulating the distance measured by the stepped clock count
To the end,
Like sheep, razed to live,
For the purposes of death

And the fear, so deepens
When you may not even hear the clock tick;
Before you fall before time
Weak at the point of being
The last breath, rasping into these mortal instruments,
Desperate
But futile

How dare this linear parameter
Limit my life force
Why does such autonomy
Have no power
Why are we so naive to roam;
fields that hold nothing.

Oh don't stop to think,
Or you'll begin
To realise,
Time will heal everything,
Or should we say;
Time will reap you of all life
Articulating ourselves as purposeful instruments,
Yet caged to perimeters far beyond our control
Life is a complex waste of time,
A fleeting moment on the face of a Mother Earth,
As the tear trickles down her face,
Falling from her delicate brow,
Forgotten, to lay at her impartial feet

The tear is built of memory,
Of happiness turned bitter
Of things that could've been,
Had time not pursued
That is not to say that the tear isn't beautiful,
The bonds, binding together,
To overcome the fear of what is to come
As they fall, they hold;
Seeing what their eyes view in each other,
In a desperate attempt to forget
That this, ever fleeting mortal moment,
Of which holds their promised purpose
Is In fact a mirror to the emptiness inside their self
Where two hollow binds,
Become one;
Happy to be forgotten,
Or at least falsely believing their existence meant more;
Than a moment,
For time to tick off.

This poem is Copyright © Damian