As If.

Posthumous words, yet the man is still alive,
Not long for this world but still waits for dawn to arrive.
His life, interred
as is, his hope.
Now he sees his world
through a kaleidoscope.
Yet he lives, as if.
He lives – as if.

Scarlet clouds drift through unfamiliar skies.
His blood, his sweat, his tears drip, as hope and love go by.
Life with its
double-edged sword –
Has hacked away at
his hard earned reward.
Yet he lives, as if.
He lives – as if.

As if life was honest, and worth the trust.
As if life had promised, to be true and just.
Or didn’t carry a ball and chain,
hadn’t married laughter to pain.
As if, to exist was worth the risk.

Mere fragments in his mind and a fracture to his soul,
Dependence and time are all he has now he’s old
His back is arched
in agony,
as he lives
through the death
of his-story, yet he lives, as if.

He lives – as if.

As if life was fair, and worth the sweat.
As if life cared, now he can only forget.
Or didn’t force us onto our knees,
betrothed itself to disease.

As if.
As if there was a reason for this
early burial into psychosis
As if –
to exist
was worth
the risk.