Fulfilled and yet so empty, happy yet so sad,
So filled with love and goodness yet so bad.
The being born and living out the span
Allotted you is so much like a chore
At times. It’s at such times I wish that I’d
Have not been born, and then I wonder why’d
I not been born more stalwart, of a more
Or less more stoic nature, more disposed to stand
Against the storm that living is. A better brain
To understand it better too, the Why.
And why the wish to cease to be, to die?
Why not the wish to stay around and rave
Against too many mouths to feed, to save
The world from too much light, from getting hotter?
Following the simple plan of one tree
Planted at a time, the teeter totter
Could regain its balance, could refreeze
The waters round the poles. By planting trees
And killing babies by the billions, we
Could keep the Earth from slipping past the tipping
Point. By starting at extremes and chipping
Off both kinds of growth, the kind that ought to be
Already gone and that not yet begun. If wise
You’ll whittle down the numbers to a size
That She can cope with, be a Mother to,
Or you’ll die out, as other creatures do.
The struggle for existence just begun,
The show already over with and done,
No more of anything to show and tell
And nothing but the breeze to toll the bell.
Draft 2 5 mar 09 6 fri d fulgham