Gene Power Poem by jim hogg

Sometimes I get the urge to ask:
what if we chose to quit the wheel?
Imagine our lot was the last
to laugh, to cry, to think, to feel,

behold the stars, the breaking waves
the falling leaves, or feel the breeze;
to fall in love and meet the gaze
of love returned, or bittersweet;

the childhood taken by disease,
the mind that's gone, the drawn out death?
Or broken bodies on the field
of war that never seems to end?