Is This Really Life?

Is this really life?
Or just a semblance of one?
Cocooned in this
Peaceful, cloying, dusty cell.
Without another voice 
To tell me that I’m dreaming. 
That all this
Is nothing more than 
A scheming of a 
Colourful imagination. 

Or is this hell?
The seeming of the bird calls
Outside 
Nothing to rejoice in. 
Because they tell me 
I’m not living. 
Just eking out the hours,
While the powers of 
What essence remains, 
Is rendered from my bones. 

So, is this the end?
And will inevitable 
Darkness come?
Perhaps to slay me when 
I least expect it.
And because I have neglected
My soul. 
And sworn to mock this vital
Gift by paying it the least of
Heed. 

Or will I be reborn?
Is this the time, 
When, finally, I 
Seek to climb
From morbid sleep?
To creep into the light
And feel the silky grass beneath 
My unshod feet?
The sun upon my face. 
The grace of God
Back in my heart.

Or is it all too late?
Have I passed that hour,
And must I start
To slowly fling my
Things away.
And will you hear me tell, 
That there's no more to life.
And I must stay.
Coccooned
And peaceful in my cloying, dusty, 
Cell. 

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