Our heart
Demands
With blood

What oxygen
Fails
To inspire

Beyond
Such fear
That is waiting

Between
Each breath
That we take,

Through pulses
Bound
To repeat

As long
As our minds
Keep begging

For a feeling
Death
Doesn’t answer

But insists
Holds God
At its door –

As peace
Still remains
Unseen

Despite
These ends
Of our making,

Like blackness
Bold
Without reason

Among miracles
Spoiled
From cause

When truths
Persist
Or object

To the fallacy
Known
As existence

In the face
Of pain
Automatic

Where humans
Believe
They can change.

No man
Is certain
Of choice

While claiming
Fate
Has a body.

Life
Isn’t based
On happy.

If anything,
It’s born
From sad.

– J. Pigno