Our Mortal Frame
Why is life concealed in a mortal structure,
Our lives are held in an ever-strangled hold,
Of fate,
A patch of overexcited munitions
In a bag of skin,
So exquisite and yet,
Barely adequate.
Every facet of our frame,
Ankles, knees, windpipe,
Not to mention of the nature of heart or base,
Sooner or later in collapse,
Or break down,
In the end we go astern,
To the heaven that made us,
We leave the mortal carcass,
And go back to the king of kings,
Who brought us.
