For all I know
Life is nothing but
A series of catastrophes yet to be experienced
And a series of hopeful utterances
Yet to escape the lips
Of many
Transforming into fruitless air.
Sure,
Life might mean something to you,
But in the town where they have to drive
Miles away to elude the light pollution from the racetrack,
Miles away just to see real stars,
Or in the third-world village
With its bloated black children covered in flies
(the kind you see on Feed the Children commercials)
And shelters made of muck and bamboo,
Or in the dirty reeking poor house,
Only inhabited by fleas, rats, and
Even lower beings
With moth-eaten clothes and rotten teeth,
In the hospitals and the cemeteries
And the street corners and the prisons,
When considering all this
You will come to find that
Life is not only meaningless
It doesn't do anybody any favors.