Life.
An infinitely imbalanced scale.
A fact we have to live with.
Where hot & cold workings used on metal,
Is used on flesh instead.

Warms you up with good times,
Like others do,
Then leaves you with the bad.
Shadowed by backs of ice,
Left confused and broken.

'Everyone makes mistakes',
A phrase for consolation.
But mistakes leaves you looking witless anyway,
Like the single who commits them.

As if existence were a mistake.
Wishing now and again
That you never did.
For it's not your choice to live,
And it's not your choice to leave either.

Put into the world
With no guarantee of time.
And not for what you want,
But for what would subsist you.
Stressed to the point of distortion.