On my way to work

There is a car parked where the block begins and there are people singing praises, say it's all because of him.
and there is a bird perched on a frayed wet wire and his voice sings out for a lover but its covered by the choir of voices reaching way beyond the rafters with devotion thy perform there sacred tasks.
they cross themselves and offer up their checkbooks-slight suffering is not to much to ask.
besides we all are making money and we are all fuc*** alone and we don't know what we are dying mabye just buying us some hope.
because we know that we are lonely, yeah lonely thats for sure, and the older on are coughing yeah the older ones are dying maybe we are all dying.
i pass a graveyard on my way to work.
today i saw two dozen white roses on a fresh new mound of dirt.
and i wondered about the occupant, when the darkness finally swallowed him was he calm and content.
or was he sweating in a struggle to keep breathing, ripping apart the sheets that dressed his bed, crying ou loud for someone to help him and collapsing on his back all pale and dead.
maybe its me whose this unstable always obsessed about the end.
why can't i let what happens happen?
and just enjoy the time i spend.
oh how i wish it was that easy, but when there is no point to anything it can get a bit confusing, why it is that i keep going.
why is it that we keep going?