Life is but an indignation in the face of death,

Wounded souls crawling towards an impossible end,

Voices scream from the edge of congealing humanity,

Writhing in the ebbulient black sludge of life,

Forever betrothed to death, time is the reverend,

The matrimony of light and dark; no way to defend.

Clenched fists, a lurid implacable determination,

Still the rusted knife turns in each wounded heart,

The music of life continues; each chord, a new scar to bare,

Yet these suffering scarred souls do not fade or weep,

Their worn hands reach through the rusted bars of life's prison,

Reaching for a reason to soar above, to have risen.

Reality is but a painting, a representation,

Beneath the futile colours lie mocking demons,

Demons that live inside every person's mind,

For the mind is the brush for this painting,

To see beyond the canvas is to watch a rock grow,

A clandestine vision only the enlightened can know.

Walking on the coals of life, surviving alone,

Every soul is a separate flickering flame,

Join together, become one roaring conflaguration,

Each soul holds a part of the final solution,

If we crawl together; against the wind and rain,

Perhaps we can discover a reason for this strain.

By James Womack