Vanity


Ruthlessly inexorable, relentless march...
where to and for what dares he importune,
unheeding weakness or backbones with starch,
Time's dogged pied piper trilling shrilly his rune?

If passion's a mountain whose peaks are man's goal,
then panic's precipice he avoids in retreat,
or Saharan despair will suck dry his scarred soul
till the will can't cajole futility to its feet.

Love is blind and unkind, consuming itself,
its zenith, combustion, emotions on the wane.
While duty's urned ashes gather dust on her shelf,
anniversaries remind, there once was a swain,

prenatal contrivance with ancestors unknown,
(as he'll be forgotten by prospective descendants),
fate's flotsam, eddying gene debris, wind blown
sapiens spore...vainly pursuing transcendence.


--Fr. Veni di Morte

 

 

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