Meaning of life

I couldn’t give a damn: perhaps, perhaps God died; from

Nietzsche’s death sprang new life; say the subject died,

How’d Demeter, reach inside, give birth to the seasons,

From which sprang forth our lives; you and I?

Apparently, I’m mad you’re bad: it’s called love,

We’re not together yet; it’s called death – I’m perplexed –

Makes me seek poetry, as fertile in shit, planted we,

Together, spoken in harmony as natural as flight;

To find the reason why life goes on, in anguish