In the triumph of flesh,
when fame of the world was your thing,
a sequence of defeats piled up and
time became stronger than the symbols.
Was it not easier to abandon the consciousness?
Living a dog’s life was more comfortable without a qualm.
How painful it was to know the reality unclothed!
You had achieved nothing in life and were readying up
now to receive thoughts of death.
Time had no beginning and time had no end.
Do you think all will be well at last?
Will we be happy without you?
Or you will be remembered as a hero without a name!
Liked it. This too is of the same genre as I usually write. Poetry of purpose. I believe if poetry does not commit (it could be too beauty also; to human existence too) why waste words, pages, ink, and now computer byte and one's time? Thank you, Satishji.
