Where does life end and where does it begin,
If it ends in death and starts with sin.
What is this juxtaposition we’re living in,
Under, within, beneath this skin.
Reconciling endings and beginnings,
Forever caught in the scattered winds.
In hurricane thoughts and tailspins,
Of harps of heaven and hells violins.
Of the sobriety of death,
And life’s drunken gin.
I don’t know, haven’t been there yet, but I know they have to both exist whilst not existing at all.
Somehow they must join at a junction of understanding.
For me, that is where poetry is made.
That all familiar waterhole where everything comes to bathe, rinse, cleanse and wander off to be soiled by a new thing, to bring back to the same hole of reconcile.