It Is, What It Is

 

What is this thing called life?

Be it in love, be it in strife.

Hearts a flutter, minds a mutter, 

During this swirling whirling bounding life.

As often is said, with shrug of shoulders and open palms,

It is, what it is.

 

Your game may be one of luck and loss,

A flick of a coin, a fall from idle toss.

With Mothers eyes, and Fathers hands,

We sit strapped to roulette’s table. Spinning, we roll the dice.

 

You may hear the laugh but miss the joke, 

Do not blush the cheeks nor stoke the faces burning flames,

Nor fumble to a trembled croak, 

Or quiver your lips with shame.

 

When life sees you on the stand, held by judging eyes,

Learn to see and always be open, there is always grey, in the blackest of black skies.

In our moments of low and ebb, keep chin up and facing true,

You may end up back on the stand, with all eyes watching you.

 

If you love then make it blazing, if you hate, cool and douse the flames,

Look at yourself in the mirror, 

Ask if you were the one to blame.

We are all imperfect during this life.

 

And even as write this collection of bursting thoughts,

No order set dictates my meanings course, 

Confusion is often driving, screeching with always my burning thoughts.

I will recall after what it is, what it is I should have thought.

As is so often the case, 

It is, what it is.

 

 

Copyright © 2017 Charlie Hasler.

 

 

 

17 thoughts on “It Is, What It Is

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