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it is tempting to lose yourself
in the pleasure of wordly possessions
money, cars, yachts, beautiful things

the Dagobert Duck syndrome

as we know
even the pharaos of ancient times
together with assorted kings and emperors
chiefs, dukes, presidents, popes, & cetera,
could only take their toys
into their graves
and not beyond

we do not know for sure
    although we may believe
if immaterial possessions
have a better fate

yet even though we do not know
what our final moment brings

a thoughtful wrinkle on your brow
looks always better than
a bleak array of orphaned things
I walk on an age roughened path,
trodden by many, yet eerily empty;
under cover of a thousand pin ******
small and insignificant;
In the company of only travelling shadows
beneath my feet.

The road ends on a destination I cannot yet see,
weariness slowly taking a toll on me;
each step weighted down by wordly woes,
Is it necessary to go on this road?
Can I rest here, lay down my aching bones,
among shadows which seem inviting-
their darkness alluring , their transience reflecting my own .
Sophia I Nov 2018
There is a land top-filled with woe,
And poorish sorrows that go unseen,
Where candle flames toss o’er the hearth.
And maidens gentle ******* are torn

By their menfolk’s leave for noble wars.
Threads of grass spangled o’er with dew
Are trodden down by silken slippers,
Bitwixt the dusk and coming morn,
A princess weeps, her heart grief-stricken.

And in the pale and rising dawn,
A flame rolls over the orchard hills,
And blossom falls in bloodied paths
Of Wallach men marching Dragul trails.

As the maidens brush their gentle hair,
The window slits are lit aglow,
And brave menfolk return at last!
The bloodied wars have ended fast,
And Szelyk troops were struck aghast,
Hence no sorrow shall be rooted there.

Landed true their dying blows,
For thought of gentle women near,
The phoenix men felt no wordly fear.
And poorish sorrows go now to grave
Where kisses fall on those not saved.

There is a land now decked with cheer.
syncopation Jul 10
There are days I wish
My feet could firmly plant into the grounds of time
And furnish roots into its fertile soil of blessings eternally mine

And close my eyes and will away its current and its tide
That propels my physical body forward while my soul stays rooted inside

Closing the mind, turning it to stone
While basking in an abyss of yesteryears and days forgone

Until the day you open your eyes and see the blinding truth
There’s no winning time for it will always rob your youth

You may have fooled yourself briefly resisting time’s wordly charms  
But immortalizing moments past will only do you harm

For when you awake from your stupor filled slumber
You will awake to days outnumbered

But by then it’s too late
Are you ready to step out on to your plank of fate?

— The End —