4 of 82

by Ely Tinkler

If we all drew our lives,
there would be many holes in our pictures.
A moth made those holes.
A moth is
death and decay.
A hole mean
loss and suffering.

Maybe holes are also disfunctional humans,
imperfect worlds;
a premonition.
As more and more holes appear,
so society falls to pieces,
rots from the core,
and god disssolves,
amongst the other lies.

A new born baby has no holes
in it's pure, innocent life.
Not yet riddled with pain,
and semi-developed it has no awareness.
If we could stay like a baby,
free, free as butterflies,
then we could be happy
and simple, and backwards.
Let's not be babies.

The disease of humaness,
is utterly incurable.
The technical hitch in life,
beyond repair.
So the holes continue to grow,
and we toil on.

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Poetry: Suffering

by Ely Tinkler

Poetry: Suffering

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