My mother told me that living is more than existing,
She asked me to live life, chase dreams,
Do whatever to catch them
But she didn’t forget give a resounding warning.
The tales were too heavy for my mouth to mutter,
Tales which my mother carved into my heart,
Which makes my thoughts wander north and south
From the conundrum competing within the spaces of my heart.
Do you not see those sepulchres,
Of dead men who toiled in vain
Who in search for benignity,
Laid their life in the terrain of deaths grip.

For in the chapters of life is found miseries
Miseries, holding up a menacing grin
Sapiens caught up with phobias of destitute
Hearts whose hopes had been ripped off.

The silence escorting the loud chymes of the clock
The melodious mystic songs of the birds
The morning crows of ill-fated corks
Which wakes us from our squeaky beds.
All for the significance of living
Life is for the living
Live it to the fullest
Do not wait until evening where you won’t be allowed to live
But only be permitted to exist
© Modest King

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