THE WORLD IS NOT A PLACE

This world we called a serene place

Is not a place at its best,

The world is a plague of turbandless disturbances,

A shield of unsavoury sheats,

A mound of morbidity and absurdity of managed ebb of life,

Truncated by intoxicating toxins of nature

Which no pleasure hands battled unarm.

This world they placed all hope;

Is not where the mind cannot fail

And fame not decomposed –

This place where self – conceit heroes and heroines

Had their best modicum of alabaster boxes,

Jewelleries, pyjamas and memories forgone

While death or worst thing happened to them.

This place we horror our treasures of dreams, visions, pursuits and possessions,

Is a place of caterpillar, canker, cancer, zobia worms –

Which shall eat and rend the beauties of the notch

Of our niche we would win;

In the cemeteries of this large earth

No admired riches and glories will follow us to the grave,

Ever as the greatness of high and rich men forgone.

Oh yes I know;

This place must be petered

Under the sun –

Place, where every man’s labour, flowers

Of the nightly early mornings and evenings

Cannot stand their daintily dishy springs

And daze of the bush burning.

This world is like an ache in the sunburn,

Whose torrent or torrid cannot rend her pestilences –

Like you could see it here and there,

That only those who preserved their earthly earthen

Are the wise people,

Who cheat death and the grave.

This is cheating us, quite misleading in all we

Have known about her mistressed motherhood –

Yet the wise cannot deny to die

Neither the beautiful women be in their beauties till death

Nor those who ruled a country,

And those who never trudged on its topless feud

Can escape the oven

Nor flowers can calendar anew year.

Atoe, I have not treasured my treasuries here;

This world no matter how pleasant and radiant –

All we have shall perish by

While we follow the shadow of death away

To adorn our painful heads in the whitish glories of heaven delight.

Michael GEO