Or Whatever Poem by Brian Mattern

thinkin' bout conception, of all things ever been,
and the imposing means of being, just trying to justify it's own ends.

clean slates aren't just granted gifts,
what's destined? i'll make sense of this.
oh i'll make sense of what's come up,
and i'll bury your bones before they stagnate in your room..

..or in your soul

..cause love's a callin' and it's world-wide now.
can't try and pretend like we were always somehow
dialectic martyrs, with a hint of sangria.
cause we were deadly vodka tonics
just numbing their pain, due to lack of handing out a meaning.
and we keep it locked up in case we need it in our next life.

and on and on we will run around and play musical chairs,
until somebody plants a tree and shares the shade on a hot summer day.