Who Are We?

Who are we in life, if hopeful not of its end?
an audience awed in passing, wishful not to attend
this orchestra, a cacophony of silence and of sound,
while our evanescent joy, obligation surely offends.
What is termed loss, if not a moment to begin with?
a romance left undone, not an affliction to make writhe
our souls that have salvation nor any further to see,
while ambivalent turns existence, from lucidity when made rid.
When are we defined, as mortals and not gods?
by the very end of sunset, each sunset and what odds
have we of finding freedom, of will, of love, of loss,
while those we presumed tending, are ones left most unawed.

36 thoughts on “Who Are We?

  1. Your poem is beautifully written and read and I have read it several times. I may be missing something but it seems so very sad. To wish for the end without knowing what will come is sheer foolishness, because we do have a choice. To me, the answer is that no one tends to another, we are each responsible for ourselves. Freedom, will, and love (perhaps especially
    love) are dependent on who and what we are and can be completely independent of either freedom or the ability to initiate self-will.

  2. Sorry for the late response…
    I am glad you found some of my offering agreeable. Feel free to visit again.
    I must confess I am utterly new to blogging and e-publishing in general, and you may have noticed my site is still under construction.
    From what I have seen and read so far I have to say I am politely surprised, nay!, impressed by the community I seem to have found.
    A world of possibilities…

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