With life, there is death.
It is eminent.
We love and hate
Each sentiment
Of our lives.

We have health and wealth.
We are poor and rich.
If we know our self
And our heart in which,
We know our soul is stealth.

Can we admit this,
Inadequacy?
And be opened up
To this democracy?
I think not.

It hides within our closet
In the dark, dirty corner
Waiting for the next deposit
From a slight and small bemoaner
Who’s been hit and slapped and bit.