The Cries of Being


Under the sky

Alone I stand

In the season of Spring

Birds chirping

Buds blossoming

And I think of death

Dead friends Lost loves

Sucked up in an Octopus

Filled with black ink

Of the poets before me

And in a harmonious yell

We all scream

“Let us out”

Let us live

Beyond the earth

Up in the sky

Above my rotted corpse

Tombstone and grave.