Why is it that
we gravitate towards the grave?
We only come alive
– if you can call it that –
when we face the struggles
that our lives
are composed of.
We envy and despise
the ever light-hearted;
we long for relief, but
don’t want to be
wholly unburdened.
These burdens –
our enemies, our close companions –
they weigh us down,
and keep us grounded
like leaden butterflies
with boots on.
Our feet leave deep imprints,
and when we take off
like swans on their first flight
they scour the surface
of the lake
in which we land
time and time again.
We can’t seem to cross it –
but we could kill with a wing.
We float and drift –
we long to crash –
but there is always the water,
the treacherous water,
carrying us until the day
we will finally wash up
and rest on the shore
we have so longingly
laboured towards.

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