The progress of the soul is a slow
Endeavour, full of the ironies
Of the narratives we create
These contexts exchangeable
Half-hearted escapes into subjectivity
That I know I am an epitaph
Waiting to happen, that my
Mortality hangs on a leaf
Like a moment lost at dusk
That my legacies are without meaning
And all that I am will be forgotten
That this world is temporary
These signs we make to each other
Mere symbols in an eternity
Of syntax lost between bodies
Miraculously born and aged
Without dignity, sick with
All that misfortune can bring
Tiding of a lost world
Not enjoyed by God, not followed
By the banks that profit
On the debts of the carnal
My art is short-lived, indeed
And not the childlike plaything
Of how a self-praiser prays.
Amazing…I love every word
Really? Wow, it was just a rant…
Yes you are a wonderful writer ❤
Does your father’s illness play a part in this poem Wuji? If you don’t mind my asking.
For sure, it’s heavy on my psyche these days…
I understand. I will keep you and your dad lifted up in prayer and peace in spirit.
The whole thing is very powerful. I especially like the last line!