Torture of May

The mornings have never made sense:
The sun comes up and the world spins around,
The stars grow light, the light grows dense,
The moon turns her face, moving underground.

There’s no reason why I am here:
Perhaps it’s not so just to understand
I’m just an atom on this sphere,
Made from water and very little land.

Knowing why this sphere spins in space,
Dances around the sun and doesn’t ignite,
Isn’t required for the human race
And this question doesn’t manifest our fight.

The one who wakes when the sun dies,
Oughtn’t to ask such questions anyway.
There isn’t need to unmask sad lives –
Leave them to this balmy torture of May.

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