What We Pretend: cyhydedd hir

What is life, unless
it seeks happiness
and the sweet caress
of contentment?

What good is one’s strain
in harness, kept chained?
Is what we each gain
self-evident?

What else is out there
past temporal cares,
waiting unaware
our finding?

How long will it wait,
our ebullient fate?
Will its revealed state
be blinding?

Just how will we know,
in that diffuse glow,
the truth and what’s so
from lying?

Suppose in the end,
that all life depends
on what we pretend
is dying?

15 FEB 2017

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