I wonder whether the author actually believes the conclusions of this poem. Though there is perhaps substance to the general statements regarding existence, meaning, etc. and so on, the complacency advocated herein is untenable. Why? Because it is this apparent paradox that drives existence onwards, that the maw is that against which life exists; not to be concealed, exploited, deranged, or abused, but to be cradled delicately in the arms of those who care for its perpetuation. Writing is this care, and it is a responsibility.
Cheers,
John Vallen
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