If one who wanted things to happen
Played dead in the garden of Eden,
Would it be fair to presume
That all the world’s a stage?

If one thinking wishing world,
Believing would destroy,
The thing the very air we breath,
The sacred soul of greed.

Is it pricy cheap perfume,
Which makes me so distraught?
Mayhaps it is the stick it must,
Merry laugh eternal thrust.

Is it that impossible,
To give your all in life?
To live and learn and love again,
To lavish in the strife?

What earthlier happy is the rose,
What earthlier sad is Darwin’s man,
What earthlier pathetic is the life,
Of one who spends his time in coffee houses,
Whispering gentle words,
Absorbing the noxious fumes,
Seeing visions of Xanadu,
Writing word which lost upon the souls of man,
Feeding sensations immortal,
Gently filling up the portal,
Fisting futility for fun,
And basking in the eternal glory
Of rampant evangelism.

There is a fine line between desire and madness,
There is a space between divide,
There dwells inside a twistedness,
There lives within a lie.

They say the world will end in fire,
Others end in smoke.
“Agreed,” said I,
“I wont’t deny,
My poetry’s a joke.”