THE MORNING'S TRASH

What is the truth,really,and what is life?

Is it the soft sound of a bubbling brook?

Or is it a picnic under a shaded tree,

Or is it the pages of a well written book.

That pause life for a long moment,

So that,in wisdom,we can see,

Here,beside a picnic basket full of food,

Where friends sit and laugh,and play,

Or the children romp about on the grassy knoll,

As we free ourselves and embrace the satisfaction,

Of flying kites and chasing ducks,

As if we have broken the urban wall,

Why is this not life,if anything is?

Why do we wonder about the simplest things?

And attempt to answer questions,complicated,

But reject the things that life does show,

That wisdom,old,is still good,

And not antiquated,

Not that life is an endless spring,

But ,water,to the thirsty wayfarer,

It certainly does ,sometimes,bring,

Just a little is what it takes,

To have life that is not a waste,

So why do we grab it by it's horns?

And complain when we fall on a thistle,

Let alone a bush of thorns,

Or is it the beautiful bosoms,

And,oh ,such shapely thighs!

For which you steal a look?

 The affections ,unwise,

I suppose that I will never know,

And just reflect in thought and surmise,

Where is logic when you need it,

Why do we give in to emotions?,

And deflect the logical thought,

By embracing foolish notions,

Pondering,O humanity,

Where were we ,really,?

What did we lose?

And what have we got?

Walking without looking,

And looking without seeing,

We live like machines,

And call ourselves beings,

Trashy novels ,we joyfully read,

And have children to raise,

But it's pets that we breed,

And on false pride do we ride,

Sitting pompously on an ass;

Rejecting the steed,

What is life,really,now?

I don't know,

But I am living it,