Poetry for Thought

Allergic to Time

We men indeed

are a dying breed

a thing that well may be

Self prescribed

We do all that we can

in attempt to with stand

the passage of time

To be able to say

longevity is mine

and old age

I’ll never know

but, it was not to be

fossillity become us

eventually

and the cycle goes on

a chain with no weak link

From the womb

to the tomb

death marches on

procession after procession

still the grave is not filled

as men die not only

of natural causes

but other men will

what benighted existence

talk about over kill

Tell me!

Where is the advantage

Tell me!

Who stands on higher grounds

With the passage of time

I see my faith waning

I am not the man I used to be

or wished to be

I sit most days

acknowledging the cycle of life

and what a fleeting thing it is

So consistent

So sure

and nonchalant

He steers with a steady hand

no dalliance

No jesting

His is of divine appointment

born and bred to duty

leisure is alienated here

and here is where we differ

My days are filled with

slothfulness

and folded arms

ever gazing upon

the cycle of life

Top of the food chain

No! We are all fodder

There is no avoiding

Your born...You die

without fail

and non-negotiable

There is no

discharge here

and there’ll be no

defecting