Over Life

Over Life.

Over Life 

I once lived with men— 

Broken men, 

Tossed men, 

Men who carried the weight of their ruin 

Like stones in their pockets. 

These men—wretched, 

Tired men— 

Were drained, 

Wrung dry by the bitter hands of life, 

Sucked hollow by its unyielding sting. 

Their eyes were caverns, 

Hollow and emptied of desire, 

Replaced by a void that sought nothing, 

A darkness too familiar to hunger for light. 

Even the faintest ache for something, anything, 

Had long been exorcised by life’s cruelty. 

They shuffled through days like ghosts, 

Bored with existence, 

Sleeping to escape its mockery, 

Yawning wide as if to consume 

The emptiness that trailed them. 

They were over life, 

And life—it seemed—was over them. 

Yet, life lingered, 

Stalling as if amused by its own cruelty, 

Granting one more day, one more breath, 

One more chance to feed their addictions. 

What did they do? 

They begged and smoked, 

Drank and belched, 

Complained and cursed, 

Their voices rising like tired winds, 

Entitled, annoyed, resigned. 

At first, I thought them pathetic— 

Men who had betrayed life, 

Hope and dreams. 

But then pity unfurled in me, 

A slow and heavy bloom; 

Perhaps life had not been sold 

Well enough to them, 

Perhaps they had not been given 

Even the smallest coin of grace. 

These men, these men— 

Taught me the shape of despair, 

The taste of what it means to be over life, 

And how easily life can be over us. 

EzroniX Poetry