Written in Transience
A poem
I’m ruffled in a world circuiting in lostness. I pick articles and see the stain of time and the rot of age ridden all over so the glow of their glamour is stolen and the shine of their freshness is missing.
I’ve acquired enough sense to understand the temporality in this planet and the fleeting winds it is pleased to harbour. Men are stoked with ambition — they hope on the clock but it hopes on their death.
The distinguished are ebullient for a season and the scholar unreels his many laurels—excellence is the paradigm of success in this notorious space, and as much as we beg for the longevity of bliss, it stays short-lived.
I’m acquainted with the sagacity of the wise and the routinized pattern of labour, yet it’s all in absolute futility, for heroes medaled with recognition drift with an ephemeral fade.
This leaves me frazzled and despondent pondering the state of affairs and the sore hands dealt to the matters of earthly existence. Nothing is truly worthwhile in a world for mortals allocated a slice in history.
Our aspirations are honed to be pointed so we strike targets predictably, and we bolster our grit to challenge inevitable odds. Yet death is known to stalk the garrison with the utmost security and pluck humans for the daze of the afterlife.
Every day is a day to fade and dissipate like a wisp of vapour. Nothing is surely ours with a true sense of ownership and this fabric of flesh is not even entitled to our possession.
The media is incurable from a broadcasting syndrome, and with their voluminous, repetitive trite, there truly is no sincerity. It’s a world so
vituperative and violent to sponsor the underhanded schemes of evil.
We’re offered the joy to cuddle our progeny and muse on the prospects of our lineage, but not for so long until we’re smacked hard and buffeted by disease — reminded we’re estranged from all things beneath the arc of the sky.
It’s a robust, bustling world rich with many promises. Beauty loves to be vivid and sound can’t be less mellifluous. But we’re strangers like we’re owners and within the circumference of this globe is a system written in transience.
© Valentine Nnebe 2024
All Rights Reserved
