Monday 31 March 2014

THE A.B.C. OF WOOING ME:


A-dore me with anecdotes of anarchy, the Americas & Roman Atrium,

B-edeck me with bandanas, bullerias, boleros & butterflies Barbadian,

C-aress me carefully with caramel candy & cherries of cream cerise,

D-ance me in delicate dirndl & drink me with dripping, dizzy delice,

E-nvelop me in ecstasies, endless ectoplasm, & elegant eglantine,

F-ly me away in a finery of feathers, with fingers feminine & feline,

G-rant me guillemots, gillyflowers & gannets & goad me to be good,

H-ail me haunting howlings, of halcyons & of hermits in their hoods,

I-dulge me with intimate inscriptions, inhale me in inert ice inscribed,

J-olly me jauntily in jabot of jade & jest, so I know, by men I´m jibed,

K-iss me with kingly kisses & upon missives of love so kriss-krossed,

L-ove me lovingly my loved one, so that I may never feel left & lost,

M-ind me & mother me, until you merrily & meltingly marry me,

N-ever neglect me & as night needs nebula, need me needingly,

O-nly once is enough to show me, that I am the overwhelmed one,              

P-lease, pretty please, plaintively pardon my pondering puns,

Q-ueen of yours I shall be, though it may seem quaintly queer,

R-ant & retract, but I know, you´re drawn to my riveting rear,

S-unny soft smiles you shall show me & not your lip so stern,

T-ouch my tawny cheek dear & then know you will never turn,

U-nion shall unite & join us in marriage & my face you´ll unveil,

V-irgin upon the vestry altar, vain now & far too late to unavail,

W-oo me with whispering winds & wondrous wynding woods,

X-ylophones, shall our extreme & exultant excitement exude,

Y-ou, only you my love, can take me back to my yielding youth,

Z-ephyr breath upon my breast, breathes us to our ultimate zenith.

 

 

Sunday 30 March 2014

MY FRIENDS THE WORDS:


You are whom I play with, deep within my ageing head,

You´re my friends I dream with, when I´m asleep in bed,

You´re the ones I rely on, when my heart is aching sore,

You´re deep beneath my skin & you ooze from every pore.

 

You are the ones I search for, when I seek my missing soul,

You´re the only ones around, when I try to fill the gaping hole,

You´re ones upon my tongue, releasing knots so tightly tied,

You´re the ones within my prayers, confessing when I´ve lied.

 

You were the ones so close to me, when as a child, I played,

You were ones consoling, in broken loves & ones who stayed,

You´re the ones, in ageing, who´ve stayed when all have gone,

And you´re the friends of lifetimes, where the sun once shone.

 

You are the ones here now, holding my old dry & dying hand,

You’re whispering in my ear, that we are off to a fairer land,

You may be just mere words, but to me, you´re my very breath,

You were my lifetime friends, those who now console in death.

FOR SALE:


For sale, old house, owners died, many possibilities,

No one knows, no one cares, so many insensibilities,

Roof sagging, tiles cracked, old loose gate is banging,

Peeling paint, weed filled garden, old gables hanging.

 

Front door creaks open, memories, all steeped in glory,

Every memory is a life time & each room tells its story,

Of bride carried beneath lintel, by her handsome groom,

And wanted babies, in turn arrived, filling every room.

 

Echoing laughter, shed tears, the aromas & the scents,

Of babies, perfumes, flowers, all filling years well spent,

Dogs & cats that came & went, filling corners & old mats,

The hooks & pegs in hallways, for long gone coats & hats.

 

The old & musty bathroom, with now cracked yellowing tub,

Once filled with giggling kiddies, rosy & scrubbed with suds,

Kitchen, once wafting, with aromas of hearty stews & cakes,

Loving sunny bedrooms, where more than bread was baked.

 

For sale, houseful of memories, once pampered, cared & loved,

The old owners long gone now, but are watching from above,

Dead pets beneath old cherry tree, waiting with bated breath,

I shall buy this house of memories & bring it back from death.

 

Saturday 29 March 2014

THE PLACE OF OLD ONIONS:


The old larder, of dust-mote shadows & floor-board creaks,

From within the cavernous dark cool, old ghost-voices speak,

That place, where as a small child, hide-and-seek was played,

Where old vegetables sprouted & the creamy milk-urns stayed.

 

That place, where new churned butter & small bums were beaten,

With wooden spoons & spatulas, when food was nicked & eaten,

Where dust waltzes with the aromas of old baking, herb & spice,

And cobwebs icing the droppings, of stale crumbs & ageing mice.

 

That old singing place, that once was the heart & household hub,

Where bowls were licked & oaken shelves were all well scrubbed,

That cool darkened place, where only the young & old onions cried,            

Where now, the tears of children & old onions have long since dried.

Friday 28 March 2014

BENEATH THE PALM TREE AND THE MOON:


On my side of the world, I sit beneath the palm tree & the moon,

On your side of the world, you sit beneath a palm tree & a moon,

And we are sublimely united by the soft breath of sighing winds,

That entwines our love, upon the blue breasts of heaving oceans.

OLD SOUL :


She runs with grey wolves, to where the raven calls,

She dances with moonbeams, beneath old waterfalls,

She avoids the blatant sun, preferring soft greying shadows,

Avoiding hordes & crowds, preferring dawn´s soft meadows.

She´s an old soul.

 

She calls to all the wild winds & chatters to ancient breezes,

She is never fazed when winter knocks kicks & coldly freezes,

She holds the dark velvet nights, close to her heaving breast,

Avoiding hard voices, harsh lights & preferring, to softly rest.

She´s an old soul.

 

She needs no human being, no man, woman or little child,

She is happy to be alone, to walk ancient paths, free & wild,

She touches old tree barks & they in turn, touch her heart,

Avoiding cruel people, those who tear her soft feelings apart.

She´s an old soul.

 

She stoops to kiss dropped petals of the sad & fading blooms,

She whispers to the birds & sends wishes upon their plumes,

She knows she is an old child, of those long past yesteryears,

Avoiding futile ebbing tides, those of man´s wept bitter tears.

She´s an old soul.

 

She is not a collector of friends, but, a gatherer of stones & shells,

She prefers the discarded feathers, to absorbing folk´s told hells,

She seeks the solitude of saints & the hermit in his hidden home,

Avoiding life´s sordid dross, always preferring, to be all alone.

She´s an old soul.

 

Thursday 27 March 2014

EVEN RAVENS FALL IN LOVE:


Spring is in the air & if you listen & you hark,

You´ll hear little songbirds, swallows & the lark,

Swooping with springtime joy, in skies up above,

But did you know that even ravens fall in love?

 

Leaving their old graveyards, they come out in the sun,

Forgetting all the dead, the ravens want to join the fun,

They forego the creeping ivy, for the scented rose of June,

Leaving behind the shadows, of their dark & Gothic moon.

 

Under springtime showers, they preen their ebon plumes,

Rejoicing in warm sunlight, far from death´s dark tombs,

I could weep with the divinity of their beauty so sublime,

To see the ravens fall in love, every spring & summer time.

 

When the deed´s been done & love has sown it´s wily seed,

When autumn moon goes creeping, over every dried up weed,

When icy frost comes nipping & spiders spin their ghostly webs,

Then, towards death´s moonlit tomb, the ravens turn their nebs.

 

Wednesday 26 March 2014

YOU´LL FIND THEM THERE:


In the libraries, thumbing through old forgotten tomes,

Words in books, talking to him, as they never do at home,

Upon peeling park bench, feeding crumbs to passing birds,

Feathered friends, showing her love, with no need for words,

Sitting at the bus stops or stations, with nowhere else to go,

All pretending with a smile, so passing folk would never know,

In the cafes, bars & taverns, sitting quietly huddled & all alone,

Making teas & beers last, not to be heading to lonely homes,

Fingering goods in shops & malls, to simply fill up their time,

Lingering in lonely places, with many hours of the day to climb.

 

IT´S MINE TOO.


That passion you lived was not just yours,

I was there too remember, there are no laws,

You´re not the only one, who fell deeply in love,

I was your other half & I thank God up above,

You weren’t the only one, who had our sons,

I was the bearer, remember? & wasn’t it fun?

As you aged, it was me who aged by your side,

We´d always vowed, to be together for the ride,

And in this terrible illness, that´s now inflicted you,

Just remember, I´m with you, it´s my illness too,

Because, if in the end, it robs you of your breath,

It too will claim me & will be my imminent death,

So please don´t think you can get away with this,

Your life´s mine too, & you, I´m still not ready to miss.

 

Tuesday 25 March 2014

TUCKED AWAY:


Tucked away in memories closets, box & dusty drawer,

Old letters, songs, photographs, poetry & so much more,

All gathering dust, in memory´s old, sad & forgetful tears,

The passing of passions & loves, from long ago yesteryears,

Old moth-eaten letters, of love & with lilac ribbons scented,

Angers tucked away, hidden, best forgotten & so resented,

I now deem to un-tuck, to open & to let fresh breezes blow,

Through the lyrics of old songs & I´ll now let old poetry flow,

Those old sepia faces, now old, cracked with age & so bent,

All forgiven of past doings & of angers so spent & now rent,

Nothing more tucked & hidden, from sight & forgotten heart,

No more pasts stowed away, all of whom I am such a part,

Now upon the shelf, on show, all overt for one & all to see,

All those tucked away memories, are all just a part of me.

BLACK:


I was raised upon desert´s dunes of singing swaying sands,

Among the golden gentle folk, of the Kalahari Bushman San,

Naked but for loin-cloth & quiver of arrows upon their backs,

Sun-kissed their cheeks & whom the Whities deemed as blacks.

 

I loved those pretty gentle folk & wanted to be one of them,

But I was just a wee Whitie, which made them cackle like hens,

I wanted to strut around naked, with my old arrow & my bow,

Playing all their games, which the Whities didn’t get & didn’t know.

 

The little white kids in the desert, of which there were very few,

Asked of each other, “When you grow up, what you want to do?”

Answers were varied, big white hunter, cop, fireman, singer & nurse,

Others said cowboy, or model, strutting in heels & fancy silver purse.

 

They all awaited my turn to answer, which I did the best that I could,

“I want to watch animals hunting, between the dunes & scraggly wood,

I want to eat creepy-crawlies & dig for roots beneath warm desert dust,

I want to touch dawn with my fingers & weep with the elephant´s musth”.

 

Time past, now I´m an ageing Crone, far from Africa, well out of its sight,

Soul bestowed upon me by golden San, even though they called me white,

And upon the breath of imminent death, I know one day I shall go back.

Dear God, I´m merely a small white child, who only wanted to be black.

EGOIST:


I only paint my lips for me, not you,

Never needing your praise that´s due,

I primp not my hair for you, but me,

Unnecessary for just your eyes to see,

I only place the rose upon my breast,

To adorn my heart, not for eyes to rest,

I sing my serenades for only me alone,

With no need of your applause for tone,

All I do, I do merely, to caress my soul,

I need no one on earth, to make me whole.

 

 

Monday 24 March 2014

RED LIPS:


Mama told me, on the day I came to earth,

That I had pink rosebuds, upon my lips at birth,

As child, soft lips smudged with juice of cherries,

Daubed, traced & licked, with furtive stolen berries.

 

As free young maiden, lips bruised mauve by kisses,

Lip-printed page to lovers, in steamy love-lorn missives,

Leaving stain upon the glass, of red & un-drunk wine,

And upon memory´s lace hanky, of past & long lost time.

 

My lips forever painted, always & on every single day,

And I´ll not let anybody ever see me, in any other way,

In ruby, wine, cerise, or in crimson of the scarlet hussy,

In any red that´s bright, I don´t care, I´m never ever fussy.

 

Please promise me when I´m dying, just before I´m dead,

That you with your old fingers, will paint my lips bright red,

So I may meet my Maker, with lips well painted cherried,

Promise me my dear, to red-paint my lips, long before I´m buried.

 

FLABBY BITS:


Now over half a century ago, I was planted as a seed,

I grew into a human, but now feel like a floppy weed,

The bonny-ness of babyhood & the rosiness of youth,

It’s all gone due south now & here you have the proof,

All the saggy bits & wrinkles, the creases & the pleats,

Blamed on lack of action, ageing & all my naughty treats,

But to hell with all excuses, the moaning & the whinging,

I´ll continue as the gourmet, the toasting & the binging,

I lift my glass & toast you, “Hail to you my wrinkly flabby bits,

To you my generous flesh & the tight belt that never fits,

Sixty years gone by now, too long we´ve been together,

Too long flabby friends, to fret about a tightened bit of leather”.

 

Sunday 23 March 2014

THE WEDDING GOWN:


Opening time´s dark closet, where the old wedding gown still hung,

She heard drifting from within, how the old chapel bells once rung,

The whisperings of old mothballs, from the gown so barely worn,

As she waited before past´s altar, as her groom was shot at dawn.

 

Upon memories of old winds, the cruel tolling of death´s knell,

Taking the rightful place, of the promised nuptial & joyous bells,

And past the wrinkles of her life, she still heard the vows unsworn,

Fingering old frayed lace, yellowing & by sleepy moths now torn.

 

Within her pitch dark soul, she sees the mirage of his long gone face,

Leaving her forever, in her Havisham´s forgotten & cobwebbed place,

Drifting from within wardrobe´s dark, aroma of lilac & old musk rose,

As together with the old tattered lace, her old memories decompose.

 

The old wedding gown, like her, now creased & with virgin love infused,

Untouched by his loving heart & hands, now ageing & still unused,

And closing the wardrobe door, of Somme´s memories un-begun,

Within her distant promise, bugle calls & the echoing of the gun.

 

 

THE BACKBONE:


Woman, always bending, her chores unending,

She, forever caring & never ever is she sparing,

Woman, plying, knitting, sewing, planting, hoeing,

She, sawing & at times to survive, even whoring,

Always eking & within her old soul, wisdom seeking,

Woman, sowing, reaping, in secret does her weeping,

She, cooking, cleaning, always searching the meaning,

Woman, always loving, dreaming, forced to scheming,

She, forever lending, forever darning, fixing, mending,

Woman, birthing, nursing & so often, even cursing,

She, with infinite patience, the backbone of all nations.

 

 

Saturday 22 March 2014

WHERE OLD WHISPERS DWELL:


I know a place where old whispers dwell,

Deep within the soul of the wishing well,

In the forests of minds, where no men go,

In dreams lost, where the trade-winds blow.

 

I know a place where old whispers dwell,

Where acorns from history´s oak once fell,

In the heart of woods, deep in the midden,

Where the secrets of ancient lore are hidden.

 

I know a place where old whispers dwell,

In the back of closets, who will never tell,

Upon tongues of lovers, deep in the night,

Close to breasts, where the babe´s held tight.

 

I know a place where old whispers dwell,

In the tolling of the lost fishermen´s knell,

Deep under oceans, within the pirate´s chest,

Beneath old tombstones, where old bones rest.

 

I know a place where old whispers dwell,

Deep, deep down, in the mossy Dingly Dell,

Where little folk play & old witches spell,

Where tinkling on the breeze is Tinkerbelle.

 

I know a place where old whispers dwell,

Always in the good, Heaven & never in hell,

So take my hand & I shall show you the way,

Follow whispers of the soul & you´ll never stray.

BONHOMIE, BIERS AND BONES:


“Death becomes you dear” said the Grim Reaper on his arrival,

Life ends for everyone, with guarantee of no body´s survival,

On this side we don´t drink, but I´ll certainly offer you a bier,

Put a smile on your face my dear, there is nothing here to fear.

 

Here you´ll have bonhomie, to grace your mind & bonny bones,

Bassoons, bopping & boogie, all to welcome you here back home,

Upon your bony body, bedecked in cobwebs, weeds & buttercups,

Dew will finally settle where worms, bats & moths, duly go to sup.

 

So welcome to your death my dear & please dry your earthly tears,

This is now eternity; your life on the earth was but few paltry years,

Take my hand dear lady & hark Heaven´s sweet beckoning chime,

And we shall gaily waltz now, down the corridors of long lost time.         

REINCARNATION:


If I have to come back to this earth in animal form,

Please don´t let me have tusk, fur nor valuable horn,

Don´t let me have flesh on my bones that´s good to eat,

Please don´t put me where man kills for his daily meat.

 

Please don´t let my home be China if I return as a dog,

Nor the cold city streets, as a stray, in the cold rain & fog,

Not in Africa as an elephant, a rhino or gold-maned lion,

And please not to abattoir, with death hot as cruel iron.

 

If I come back, I don´t want fur, plume, hide, talon or claw,

I don´t want beautiful skin, pelt, scales, maw, jaw nor paw,

Never to be a lab experiment, nor potion of medicine man,

Not to amuse the human, nor be put into net, cage or can.

 

Please do not let me return as lowly worm, tiny bug or slug,

Sprayed in chemicals or put onto hook, by burly human thug,

If I have to return dear God, & if it´s in your vast eternal plan,

Please, I pray to you, don´t bring me back as cruel callous man.

 

Friday 21 March 2014

OH FOR THE PRETTY OF YOU:


Oh for the excruciating pretty of you, my sweet darling,

From the very head to toe of you, I see only your beauty,

Your head held proudly upon your sweet & so delicate nape,

Shoulders, mountains of Gods, where your strengths are carried,

Between soft rolling hills of breasts, valley where secrets are kept,   

Rounded cauldron of your belly, where ancient life is kept sacred,

Undulating hips, rhythm, taking each leg forward in the step of life,

Your arms mantle me, in the soft cape of undying & passionate love,

Your hands, those flitting happy butterflies, chatting gaily to life itself,

Your eyes, pretty dancing blue oceans, sparkling, flashing & splashing,

Oh, to die for your smiles, those of a thousand universal shining suns,

Your rose-budded lips, within the magnolia garden of your creamy face,

Your silken cheeks touched by the blushing of eternity´s soft sunsets,

Oh my darling, you are my prayer, how I imbibe the very pretty of you.

Thursday 20 March 2014

FEAST:


You are a delicious platter of visual delights,

For those foraging in church-preached plights,

A feast for old eyes famished in Lenten famine,

Face of peaches & cream, so elfin & gamine,

Whetting appetites with Spanish olivine eyes,

Your caramel lashes & sweet sugared smiles,

So very mouth watering, your red cherry lip,

To quench arid thirsts, sip by delicious sip,

Wheaten hair of golden sun-kissed harvest,

Merely feasting the eyes, we are truly blest.

 

THE AWAKENING:


Words spat, now turned gently around,

Hardened hearts, with love now pound,

Past tears of sadness, now flow with joy,

Education & health, for every girl & boy,

Hatred forgotten & love new abounding,

Once garbage ruled, now beauty astounding,

All colours of the world, can now converse,

Races & creeds, now all one in the universe,

Everyone on earth respecting nature´s rules,

Battlefields turned into new hospitals & schools,

Birds now flying, in high air that´s fresh & clean,

Beasts left in peace, with no man that´s mean,

Uncontaminated waters can now worldly flow,

New fields flourish & old forests now grow,

And all this, because of the awakening of man,

With eyes wide opened, he sees the original plan,

And putting to rights, all that he has done wrong,

Every living creature now rejoicing, in joyous song.

 

 

Wednesday 19 March 2014

SUNDAYS:


Sundays, designed for the lonely without a loving home,

For those who have no one & are totally on their own,

Sundays, created in silence, for all streets without a name,

For the tap-tapping echoes, of the blind man with his cane.

 

Sundays, incantations of chapel bells, so coldly & old chimed,

Of the tin can kicked loudly over cobbles, grey & dirty rimed,

Sundays, that hallowed place, where the folk go out to pray,

 Sadly, most forgetting, that God lives too in every other day.

 

Sundays made for men, who talk to bottles in brown bags,

For those who dance alone, when life´s edges sadly sags,

Sundays, days designed for those, who weep alone in rain,

That oh-so-lonely place, where the week meets in solitary pain.

 

YOU´RE HERE:


“Dead & gone, not here nor there”, everybody said,

“Time to move on, she´s no more here, she´s dead”,

But how little they know, all those well-meaning folk,

I know you´re here, as in the wind, it´s you who spoke.

 

A nuance, echo, whisper, it´s your voice in the breeze,

Love letters you send, in falling leaves from old trees,

In the waves of wild oceans, it´s your singing I can hear,

In ripples upon the bay of silence, I know you are here.

 

In golden sunbeams dancing, I see your smiling shine,

I taste your kiss of cherries, in every glass of ruby wine,

It´s your tears upon my cheek, in the falling of the rain,

It´s your breathing in the air, I feel releasing my sad pain.

 

When the night envelops me, I know it´s your warm arms,

And moonlight shadows; always bring forth your old charms,

I see within the shining of stars, the twinkling of your eyes,

In all things, I know you´re here, that you never really died.

 

Tuesday 18 March 2014

THE BONES OF YOU:


I love the very bones of you, right down within your depths,

Your sinews, tendons, blood of you, beyond life´s very death,

I love you beyond your figure & beyond your beautiful face,

I love the very bones of you, in that very exceptional place.

 

Let me sail upon warm rivers, of your very special blue veins,

I´ll amble over the flesh of your fields & lie upon your soft plains,

Allow me please to enter, into the centre of your very old soul,

As I love the very bones of you, because they protect your whole.

 

 

YOUR SKIN:


Don´t give me skin of damsels, brushed with paint of sun,

I crave not the golden honey, of dermal beach-side fun,

No bronze nor copper hues, of pheasant´s burnished feather,

No tan of tanneries, none of dried, cracked & beaten leather.

 

Give me only your skin, that of moonlit moth´s soft dustings,

Tracing of your river-weed veins, in ancient & primitive lustings,

Your precious skin, of alabaster silk & perfumed magnolia cream,

Give me your skin of old petals, where dying roses go to dream.

 

Let me kiss your satin skin, your cloak of pearly whale’s milk,

Let me caress your fine-spun coverings, as fine as spider´s silk,

Your veil so transparent, where through your flesh, I see your soul,

And within your mantled skin, our love protected, we´ll enfold.

 

 

Monday 17 March 2014

HAVE YOU EVER WONDERED?


Have you ever wondered why all birds fly so high?

Why their feathers are light & get lost up in the sky?

Have ever wondered why the fish has silver scales?

Why they swim below depths & are friends of whales’

Have you ever wondered why beasts walk this earth?

Why they exist, hunt, mate, die & also bring forth birth?

Have you ever wondered at the perfect petal of the rose?

Why it lasts a short time & taken by the wind that blows?

Have you ever wondered why the moth lives but a day?

Why it´s born, blindly mates, dies, then quickly goes away?

Have you ever really wondered at the reason for it all?

Why we breathe, live at all  & then why we have to fall?

Have you ever wondered at the short lived morning dew?

The reason we´re upon this earth, is simply my love for you.

THE WEATHER IS MAD, THEY SAID:


She´s mad they said & all because she so loved to dance,

She swayed over wild oceans, to Spain, Holland & old France,

She´s mad they said, but she just danced past their cruel jibes,

She waltzed down corridors of time, across pages of old scribes.

 

She´s mad they said, as she danced across the sky with lonely birds,

She danced with sun´s rays & rivulets of streams, ignoring cruel words,

She´s mad they said, as she slow danced with beams of the opal moon,

She let her hair down with salted waves, at midnight in the month of June.

 

She´s mad they said, as she danced in autumn, with the old golden leaves,                     

She teased & tantalized the filigreed tops, of turning copper-topped trees,

She´s mad they said, as a banshee, she bowed, twirled & swirlingly flurried,

She took her time, saying to the world, “Seasons can never ever be hurried”.

 

She´s mad they said, as the winter´s silvered gown turned her wary step,

She danced through all the cold rivers & seas, never losing her vim & pep,

She is never still & at peace with the world, she´s totally mad, they said,

“Mad? Not I, she said, “It´s just your imagination, it´s all within your head”.

 

 

 

THE WISEST OF EYES:


I see worlds from before, in the eyes of the child,

And within the eyes of the wolf, I can see the wild,

I see ardent passion in the eyes of the young man,

In the eyes of the beast, I see God´s greatest plan,

I see wisdom, within the eyes of the woman of old,

And within the eyes of life, I can see all that I hold.

 

Sunday 16 March 2014

CLINGING VINES:


Fetus clinging to mother´s womb for life,

The babe, to breast for sustenance offered,

The maid, to sweet dreams of what´s to come,

The bride, to the man who gives her true love,

The mother, to the child she deems to protect,

Everyone clinging, all clinging like vines to life,

All but the Crone, who has clung for too long,

Her tendrils loosening in their joyous freedom,

Un-clinging at long last, to find the soul she is.

 

DITTY OF EXPECTATION:


The kitty sits waiting to pounce,

The kanger is so ready to bounce,

The dog wagging his tail at sudden joy,

The mother birthing, is it girl or boy?

The altar vows awaiting, “I do or don´t”,

The pleading favour, “I will or won´t”,

The rainclouds, will the sun come out?

The, I´ve done wrong, will they shout?

The doctor´s diagnosis, is it do or die?

Eternal expectations question the will or why?