WAKE UP AND SMELL THE ROSES

 
Who knows how this will end up

Maybe we’ll wake up in a field of roses

Unable to smell them

Yearning for the esthesis era  

and the sensory delight of death acknowledgment

This urge for justice

This search of missing wholeness

The nostalgia of homely warmth

Is as unexplainable

As the self

And the reality it creates

echoes the false imprint of perpetual heroism

As soon as it crumbles

We can BE.