It should be easy

This thing they call living

It should be a way

Out of the pond

And when the mist lifts

All these misfits

Should have learned 

How to swim their way home

As they stumble

Towards the sunlight

They are met 

By arrows of pain 

It's never easy

This thing they call dying

There's no way

To climb out of this pond

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Although it is not

Up to you

Which thoughts

Appear in your head

You are in

Control

Of what you do

With them

How you shape them

And how you allow

Them to shape

You

Is in your hands 

Alone

For we are all malleable

And although

This makes us 

Vulnerable

It is only the 

Plasticine people

Who melt

In the glare

Of the

Dying sun

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The mystic rain
Pours 
From the umbrella sky
In a rainbow 
Of shining puddles
Laying beneath
What went before
Leaving no answers
As the dying questions
Fizzle 
In the half light
Left by the place
Where the sun
Used to be
In the space
Between shadows

your soul
Hiccups
Whilst your mind 
Dances
And you whisk
Yourself away
Into
The infinity
Of madness
Where a world
Spins
I...

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