These hands. These feet. This corporeal form.
Fleeting
As ephemeral as the clouds of dawn.
The humble heart knows this soon will end
None of these I own
All is smoke and ashes
All I have is my soul.
Whistling winds messages convey
Told them I these things.
A system of memory this body is. That’s all
I will count my coins as I depart
Mount me on my mountain of things
Recount I my life’s worth
Trinkets never satisfied
Aggrandize I mountains of things
To sate insatiable flesh,
Yes, this is the prize
A little about me and poetry
This poem is my submission to the School Poetry 100 Day Challenge hosted by @d-pend, whom I would like to thank for sponsoring this competition. He is indeed a godsend. Though a bit dubious, I would consider myself an intermediate writer of poetry. My first love is prose, so if you get a feel of something other than verse in my poetry that is why. I use poems to assist me when I have writer’s block. This strategy, however, seems to be morphing into something more serious. At least I think so.
Thanks for reading.
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Real ting ! It’s all ashes, smoke can dust!
But still we lust
These hands These feet. This corporeal form
Fleeting
As ephemeral as the clouds of dawn.
The passage of time making havoc in the physical body of living beings, only the soul retains freshness of eternity. Good job, appreciated Nicholas.
Thank you
If we didn't have souls, then everything would be pointless. Being an eternal soul puts things into perspective.
Indeed. Thanks for the response.