It’s treason for a traveller of time
to put down granite roots as if to stay.
Inserting more than tent pegs is a crime.
For here’s the secret truth: Life’s just a day!
Therefore, three years is merely but an hour
and every year is twenty minutes flat.
Such knowledge our ambition should empower;
new thrust to carpe diem and all that.
Yet, immortality somehow is rife;
behaving like we think we’ll never die.
No thought for our demeanour in this life;
our purpose here we never question why.
We entered through a wormhole to the womb;
a brief flame, then another from the tomb.
© Alan Morrison, 2013