Life Is The Illusion That We Keep

Life is the illusion that we keep, When everything that makes the heart want to go on beating Falls away; and even the blood itself sits sluggishly, Hardly stirring itself to any useful purpose Although we can still remind ourselves It's not that bad; after all, we are still living and just think of the others Who no longer have that gift of aliveness any more: Whose pulse is forever stilled, And whose blood now lies in thick pools Upon lost highways, of some desolate gray paving-stone world; Somewhere must be very far from where we are, Their souls always hovering above, waiting, Unsure where or what it is they should be going to next. But we still have at least the appearances of life; Even if our skin is cold to the touch And though our flesh has taken on a waxy grayish cast And our eyes trickle out streams, of half frozen icicles; Even if our stiff-tongued words can't make us be understood anymore Wrapped in our endless winding sheets of hopelessness As we roll over and over, trying to find the loose edge. And once, we thought we saw a lighthouse glimmering in the distance- But it was merely some souls, setting themselves on fire. They had heard it was the only way out of here.