Life

It's almost a humour,
How our demeanour

In struggled endeavour
Could never predict

The violent weather
Taught not by our teacher

And in tragic displeasure
We realise too late 

That our heaven
Was hell before we ever
Could lay our anchor
By isolate joys on which to tether

In this world of life lived and died
With love lost and lost memory
The long and short side?
We try the impossible,
But to find our own place in the painting
Brushstroke in a colour-wash sky

And on we trudge
As though movement
Through dirt soak
Would purify bad blood
And heal every toe stub

We tread a path mapped up
Next door, out of sight to us
Until we reach the keyhole
The eternal portal
To our resting quietus