Submitted By: Robert Egbe

My conception began in a deep pit
the dwelling place of the peaceless dead.
For I should not have been born
but I must have chosen to be
now I know I chose wrong.

My eyes are soft and brown,
like those of crying dogs;
none find compassion in them
my teeth; strong and healthy,
but hunger remains my best friend.

I have legs for walking
but I run all the time.
The slow, The weak; The shot, The very dead.
paper and pencil are not for me,
my hands went away in a cloud of smoke.

Confusion came easy
for I dwelt in a non-existent world
I should have chosen not to have been born,
but I chose to be.
Now I know I chose wrong.

© Robert Egbe, February 12 2002