POETRY: AT EASE

We love the deaths we create

like playing God 

We play Doctor with choice, needles and syringes

Serving death  on mackintosh sheets

Nights of sleepless slumber
Days of attentive distraction
Hours racing into days
Lived a being destined to die


It is real though
The torment, the torture
The torrent of guilt!
Never at ease with the strangers we've become to ourselves
Or of fighting Morality's wars.

It is funny though
The ease with these wars
For time passes

And only the charts live to tell the tale

of souls that lifts from their slumber
And of ease that grows from distraction.