The Counting

[Albertparsec]

Life, they say, is an average of forty matchstick remains,
Forty-five are the grooves on vintage vinyl domains,
Time on the calendar, a concept that refrains,
Evening mirrors freezing with icy strains,
Loneliness is the essence that silently explains.

Life, they say, is an average of forty matchstick remains,
Sleep gently descends, whispering subtle refrains,
Diseases, wars, and migrations, fleeting and stains,
Drinking water, erasing memories, a remedy that sustains.

Life, they say, is an average of forty matchstick remains,
A slight chill embraces me, shivering in my veins,
Thoughts clash and ponder the mind's intricate terrains,
Leaving untold bitterness, concealed chains,
Sweat, tears, and sea merge in saline strains.

Life, they say, is an average of forty matchstick remains,
Not the dice-rollers, but the influencers who ordain,
Love the possibilities, as destiny entertains,
After the era, a flip side, the future reins,
Before the epoch, an inscription remains.

Life, they say, is an average of forty matchstick remains,
Genetic, ethical, and scriptural claims it contains,
Oh settled one, yearning for the lost oasis in strains,
Secretly longing for paradise, forgotten gains.

Life, they say, is an average of forty matchstick remains,
And the vast universe, its expanse it constrains,
Like a confined matchbox, where existence maintains.


I'm curious about your thoughts on my poem. Please feel free to comment. Best wishes