in meekness, his soul desired;
in weakness, his flesh retired.
yet so easily, he set his soul on fire,
again succumbing to his fleshly desire,
bogging himself in this swampy mire.
despite the cognizance,
of the need for repentance,
he led a life of reluctance;
one which reeked of repugnance,
one in need of penitence.
he cried out in melancholy.
‘has this pitiful life sated your ennui?
a vile slave that’s chained to iniquity?’
was just another daft futility.
he came to terms with reality.
nothingness breathed into life; created.
to be our own gods; we rebelled.
from dust to dust; we were condemned.
an outpouring of grace; we were saved.
at the end of the pilgrimage of sanctification
lay the casket that ended all persecution
yet this resting place will not be my last;
and this beatific smile will merely be my first.
brought back to life;
we were arraigned.
acquitted of vice;
we were justified.
what am i doing with my life?
whispering to myself all these lies,
justifying all my withheld tithes.
see not this pandemic that runs rife?
just another confused youth
time after time, ‘i don’t have time’.
forced into a rush, all i do is whine.
rebuffing concerns, i declare ‘i’m fine’.
i had no right, the fault was mine.
just another incorrigible sloth.
dancing through calamity in pure bliss,
completely oblivious to the serpent’s hiss.
perhaps it’s time i come to confess:
wholly foolish; and wholly careless.
just another play-pretend sleuth.
yet logic reasons to me,
and the path is plain to see.
giddily, i shudder with mirth;
this pained comedy of the mind’s labyrinth,
its vain portrayal of a polymath.
maybe just maybe.
i’m just another sociopath.
here rests the thief of time.
he sought every single dollar and dime;
perennially procrastinating and delaying,
perpetually doing some other thing.
‘i’ve still got time!’ he always thinks,
unaware of all chrono-spacial links.
‘i won’t need forty minutes to get there;
half that time i can spend elsewhere!’
one thing led to another;
the dominoes toppled down further.
overestimating becomes habit thereafter;
whilst misjudging value becomes character.
‘ah i needed forty minutes after all;
hey why isn’t anyone else at the hall?‘
watch the clock let out a ring;
the butterfly effect is in full swing.
tomorrow, tomorrow and tomorrow;
it’s the oft-trodden path of sorrow.
don’t bite the bait;
time does not wait.
here rests the thief of time,
his whole life a mere pantomime.
the glaring regret on his epitaph:
‘i wish i walked down a different path.’