We are saved each new day
not by grace but
by our instinct to not be
eaten alive by the wolves
or the job
or the woman
or the mosquitoe
that never quits nipping
at our skin
at our flesh
at the marrow of our bones.
We are saved each new day
by instinct,

Under the hot sun, we are
bleached and blown to dust;
Fatigued only by our own
resistance to inevitable
consequence of being now.
We are alive all at once
or nothing.
The only grey is the sky.
Is the sand.
Is the seed inside a man,
set upon the interior of

A defeat in life is only
by the number of days you
live after.
The only things we can be
sure of are
the worms, the smoke, and
A feast upon what once was,

We are now as we were then;
We will never be

written on 04/04/2013 by: Matt Kane