Poetry

Middle Life by Beatrice Pitocco

Sometimes I stand in the middle of life. Watching the people rushing on by. They move so quickly to and fro, and I wonder where it is, they're about to go. I look at the faces, and don't comprehend. Each one of them has a beginning, and each one has an end. Each life is unique, yet ordinarily the same. And I try to adjust to this very strange game. Maybe I am a part of something bigger than me. Like words in a book, in a library. Each word holds no meaning but together they speak. And by reading we see, that it isn't so bleak. There's a subtlety to this life, that's hard to ignore. Love is the...

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Life is Illusion

Lies fall back on to liars, deceptions fall back on deceivers.  The truth is subjective, we all know that.  God is alive to believers.  Hate, is just misguided love.  Alone is where I do stand.  In cities unknown and unfamiliar; without a friend, in a city which belongs to no man.  I don't know how to be with the others.  So to myself, is with whom I should rest.  Through the lens of a camera, is all that I know.  It is how you can define me at best.

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