For years I’ve thought –
Of the living, of the dead: if they’d go to hell, if hell is real. Then there were the living dead, living what they dread.
If there was a meaning, if that meaning had a purpose: to all of this/us and and then there were none.
About the home you come back to and the one that finds you: in the middle of nowhere and we’re headed there.
This year has passed like those before like the waves that hit the shore. Only to come back again.
And I still think.