Some things

you look at two ways.

Some things

look different to

two

people.

Swinging.

To someone in love,

swinging is

the swaying of a suspended bench

through the spring air

with flower pastels adorning the bright green landscape

below a clear blue sky.

To someone heartbroken,

swinging is

the afterthought of a noose,

the swaying of a hanging body

punished for a crime

that body did not commit.

The minuscule motion after the trapdoor

FALLS

and the rope

constricts your neck.

What is life but perspective?

Seeing through different lenses-

Feeling another grasp.

Another texture.

Feeling tears where some feel none.

The human condition is our difference.

Different eyes.

Different colors.

Different.

Lives.

Those colorblind will never see

what I see.

They will know no different.

But

wait.

Maybe I am colorblind and they are not?

I will never know.

And why ask?

Why ask for purpose?

Why?

If I even receive an answer,

it will surely be

that

the purpose of life is

to ask what the purpose of life is.

Living in this web of confusion.

I am swinging.

On a playground swing.

Asking these immortal questions.

I am swinging.

A pocket-watch in front of your eyes.

Playing with your brain.

I am swinging.

From jungle vines.

Taking in the beauty.

I am swinging.

On a suspended bench.

Breathing happiness.

I am swinging.

From a cold noose.

From a rough noose.

From a tight noose.

From a metaphorical noose.

A symbolic noose.

A terrible noose.

A deathly noose.

I am swinging.

From a fateful noose.

With no answers.