questions

how best must a man dare live?

with his palm flung open, glad to give?

believing it holds more than a fist held tight?

(like moon beams grasped by the greedy night)

aye what must guide his every waking act?

and what must be his heaven-bled pact?

how should he choose his one best friend?

or the foe he must keep close till the end?

should a man be of quick decision or deep thought?

should he have a price or simply stay unbought?

should he count his seconds or while away time?

and which among the twain is actually a crime?

should he hoard his wealth or not save his buck?

should reputation matter or should he not give a fuck?

ask yourself such questions and yes, it is true

that each can be followed by not one but two

but perhaps as we wonder about the wonder of it all

as our bodies lose breath and as we begin to fall

the question we must pose as we finally exhale

is the one that sums up this questionable tale:

that like a resplendent flag in the wind uncurled

did I add meaning – and just not weight – to the world?

ram cobain

(Pic courtesy Google, photographer LJ Holloway)

unsolicited

Death was in a tearing hurry

His forehead sewn with lines of worry

His chest made a fearful gasping sound

As his feet sprinted above the ground

So I stopped him quick and gently said

Who is the poor sod s’pposed to be dead?

The Reaper caught his breath, exhaled

But then his sweaty red face paled

His eyes didn’t meet mine as he replied

Woe, you’re the one who has died.

ram cobain

(Pic courtesy Google)

a question of belief

the atheist quietly prayed

I thought I had it made

but now that my body shakes

possibly I made a mistake

so Blessed Lord if you do exist

pretty please add me to your list

I’ll make up for all my sins

with heavenly hymnal dins

but if you’re just a peddled lie

like I knew from when I was five

then would you ever be so kind

(because faith they say is blind)

would you care to show me the way

to the revered Devil’s homestay.

ram cobain

(Pic courtesy Google)

inarticulate

he wrote about a flaming furious moon

and angels with happy cruel streaks

he wrote about eternity gone too soon

and birds with fangs inside their beaks

he wrote about black childhood fears

and about sparkly-neon outer space

he wrote about dead men’s dried up tears

and living heroes sipping on disgrace

he wrote about epics in unknown tongues

and about feelings never ever felt before

he wrote about gods with human lungs

and about nothing behind a closed door

he wrote about peace raring for a fight

and how perverted horror could be art

he wrote when all he wanted to write

was about his fucking aching heart.

ram cobain