Of sheeps and birds

We wander on yet perish none the less

A part of us might live on inside the present to be the future

As if a time bomb has caressed

Only we know not the limits to our venture

Like a roach of a burnt joint

Is life like

Useless to that point

That it might still be preserved to a lunatic's delight

But I for one, like them flying birds

More so lonely than in a flock or a heard

If sheep are stupid, birds are too

Life is nihilist, all the cheers are 'boo'.