It’s treason for a traveller of time
to put down granite roots as if to stay.
Inserting more than tent pegs here’s a crime.
The secret truth is this: Life’s just a day!
Therefore, three years is merely but an hour
and every year is twenty minutes flat.
Such knowledge spirit-vision 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.
At that, I heard a voice say to me, loud,
“My knees under this table firmly rest!”
It spoke as if it thought there’d be no shroud
and had no notion that this life’s a test.
I pointed out that table had to rot;
and then those comfy knees would be exposed.
Of his mortality he had forgot,
and that his flesh would soon be decomposed.
Oh, how our minds are easily deceived;
imagining we are autonomous
due to the ego-spell which we have weaved.
(Although our Source is not anonymous!).
For when we realise this life’s so short,
we will with our Creator then consort.
© Alan Morrison, 2019