Author(s): W.F. Stubbs

Poetry

I viewed a stretch of tasman from atop a lookout and was stunned by the view. With thoughts of leaving New Zealand in my mind, I wondered how I could leave "all this" behind: These views of the moon cresting over hillsides, floating over the ocean, being veiled by cloudy nights. And then I relised: You have to live in it as well.

Live for what?

To run?

To observe?

To murder the soul with words?

Because life is empty

And I can't live for other people.

There is no one else to share this life with,

To release the weight

Of waiting,

Living and chasing,

Living and hating.

How can existing be enough?