Music, Words, and Yoga

Yesterday,
A paper read,
“The Sun Is Out”.
“A Boy’s Shot Dead”.
So, I payed the man
Who sold me the pulp.
The tree that fell
For my eyes
To read.
The ink that stained the page
To bleed.
Was I ready
To recieve
A volley of information
Thrown
My way?
So,
The game is afoot
Almost everyday.
The day it does’nt
Is the last day.
The day you die.
When you no longer pay
In dollars and cents,
but whatever you say,
and what you’ve said.
How you’ve lived,
And
What you’ve read.
Next,
I walk,
and the danger mounts.
With each passerby,
Car and truck.
It escalates.
Maybe,
I’ll up the ante.
As the day wears on
Towards
The setting sun.
I reach the mountains
Of deeds
To be done.
I drink from the fountain
of what’s
To become.