The Pink Russian (poem)

180° one

A cause not caused, for I create:
And you — you wear your own attire —
We play our roles on every day
We do our best till we retire —

Bow out — we all have influence.
We fluctuate in right, in wrong;
In love, and hate, in consequence:
A fact: we are not here too long.

There’s but one life, there is no other
But even if there were a choice
Would you replace your own mother
Or throw away your being’s voice?

A life with scars, with pain, and profit —
Would you embrace death and face black
Whole nothingness? Time to cough it.
Or shall we take a few steps back?

180° two

Grip your conscience by the face;
Eye-to-eye, you question it:
“Who am I? Where do I place
All my time — Where do I fit?”

Ask these things, find your true way;
Seconds pass, but which to chase?
Do we live in the night, or day?
Much to do and much to trace —

Woke one day and all was well:
Woke the next and felt like death.
On which of these should I now dwell?
Of which to use, or save my breath?

Most our life we’re not ourselves:
Briefly, though, we all connect.
In these moments there are no shelves
We open up — and we reflect.