I, Beast

Life is won.
Life is lost,
At what cost?

To be born,
To be dead,
We are bred.

Every day,
Every night,
To delight,

Or to hate,
Or to grieve.
We perceive

Each new sight,
Each new sense—

Gathering dreams,
Gathering dust,
Linger us.

Then to pause,
Then to sigh,
Then to die.

George Chadderdon © 1993