The living often faced with contradictions,
pupils dilated from harmonic refraction,
simple yet never easy, life rarely is smooth sailing
across the penchant sea.
What is the living, the open box or the covered,
what life is to you, is a life none other to the next,
cornered in yet finding solace,
sometimes fitting in is not in one’s itinerary,
sometimes one longs to solitary and find rest in silent endeavors.
What is for the living, the giving of food,
the making of food and in the company of the mundane,
construction of fine art and poetry, beasts living on the inside that one
may never know about, except through suffering,
finding God in the extension of one’s inner core,
The wave of life, ships glide then are torn asunder,
jagged rocks and intrusion of marriage
all come together; contradictions of life,
boxes are wrapped with strings of desire,
once unwrapped, your strings of desire may unravel too,
who really are you?
Life is for the living, the taken had lives despite it’s circulation,
we spend time on keyboards and brush strokes,
spend time with ourselves and the no~body,
crushing waves of emotions and bellowing of allowance
into our predictions, tossing aside what we thought
may be picturesque; rarely does it turn out this way.
Living is an execution of trampled stories,
the skies upon, feeding our inclination to escape boredom,
lighting up and burning, leaving us with material to write about,
to understand, to comprehend, to rescind or further our fascination,
with the astounding quality of secrecy.
Life is living in a shroud of secrecy.
Nothing is truly understood.
Anna Rozwadowska 2019