To Live Poem by Walt Ostrander

To live
Is to dream
With Death as a lucidity.
No more will time make
Vicious intimacies with Love;
For still there are fingers mismatched
And bells straining to hear
What it is like to, simply, Live.
(And philandering about as the
Cuckold often do shall illusionary existence
Secretly murder silently and sweetly to a rather
Tiresome audience)
There is no room for those of sound importance,
And Angels flow upon the crimson robes of Time
And strike with obsequious villainy
The comets of our lives.