Our lives

Our lives are but nothing.
We are born, one small child
among the billions. Our cries ring,
Heard by some, but silent all the while.

Just a few people who care
That we exist, that we live and breathe.
Soon, however, others would despair
If, God forbid, we simply ceased to be.

As we grow we meet others,
Who, just as we, are but single children
Born and raised by their fathers and mothers.
Soon other lives matter, and then,

Before we know it, we find
One person who seems to be
Different that the rest. A feeling so sublime
We forget the old reason that we

Even woke to see the sun each morn.
It is ironic then, and comes full circle,
That we desperately love one, born
Alone as we were. A girl,

Whose life means nothing by itself,
Is vitally important in our life.
So then a life is like a book on a shelf
Waiting for a writer, waiting for a wife.