When Do We Start To Live
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© 2017 Darren White and Wesley C. of "The Poetry Brigade of Wayward Flowers"
How do I know we’ve lived?
If you’re certain then tell me when?
When? When have I lived?
Do I live now?
Is it the tap-tap of my hand against the window;
the drum played by my fingers on the chair?
Is it the slowed back-beat, or the snare drum speed,
under your hand at rest,
on my chest,
in this 2 AM discotheque.
How do we know we’ve lived?
Is it a faint notion, or
movement in my legs:
A lotus reed on my calves
I'd never felt until it tickled me?
How do I know I’m still alive?
Is it when the ice-blue swaddles
me in abyss, of
inky darkness?
Or when I’m a borne flutter of this butterfly
crinkled away in my chest
cavity?
Or as sun rays play
with light and words that tumble,
crumble, and fall to pieces,
in their own stubborn way,
here,
on this paper?
Is it found in a friend’s voice
that pulls me from dark,
penetrates a radiance inward,
up from me, out,
to my face,
ablaze with why I'm here to exist?
If you’re certain then tell me when?
When? When have I lived?
Do I live now?
Is it the tap-tap of my hand against the window;
the drum played by my fingers on the chair?
Is it the slowed back-beat, or the snare drum speed,
under your hand at rest,
on my chest,
in this 2 AM discotheque.
How do we know we’ve lived?
Is it a faint notion, or
movement in my legs:
A lotus reed on my calves
I'd never felt until it tickled me?
How do I know I’m still alive?
Is it when the ice-blue swaddles
me in abyss, of
inky darkness?
Or when I’m a borne flutter of this butterfly
crinkled away in my chest
cavity?
Or as sun rays play
with light and words that tumble,
crumble, and fall to pieces,
in their own stubborn way,
here,
on this paper?
Is it found in a friend’s voice
that pulls me from dark,
penetrates a radiance inward,
up from me, out,
to my face,
ablaze with why I'm here to exist?
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