The morning breeze grows new
and new endings settle
in the evening shades,
of hasty joy in newborn happiness
you fly along the waves
and deeply drown in the darkness
fallen in your deeds, suffering
lonely and astray.
Life is not…

New is also the baby’s first cry
calling for its mother,
emerging and resting in her arms
when tired.
The same cry is now fading,
growing away, from your cheers and smiles,
and will slowly, slowly die.
Life is not…

Your hopes grow powerful and strong,
contented, you cross all shifting aims
fulfilled, it gives no resting bliss
described in the morning sunrise
but shifting like the slack sale
in the storm
or cracks of the mountain hills.
Life is not…

Rushing towards the amorous heights,
freshen your blood like the spring
moving into new, free enraptures
then dropping, your feverish smile
your timorous visage
into a steep of a bursting pastoral.
Life is not…

February 2016 ©k.c.

A note about the title which refers to

“Life is not always wha it shoild be”