The Trumpet and the Harp

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Harp Butterflies

We think we’re SO important
in this tiny world of helter-skelter
pitter-patter, bloody-spatter,
everything is fleeting fashion
“nothing matters except me” mentality.
Does all the scoria we do and act out
really matter in a universe of wonder
(tearing trash asunder) such as this?
Our petty lives must bore to death
so much that we in all our me-ful
emptiness create a yawning chasm
resting on a crutch (earth ash cremate)?

We make our selves the central sun
[no matter what we otherwisely claim,
for everywhere our smoking gun reveals
the truth of bullets fired which maim]
and then expect all other body-lives
to orbit round us with their eyes
transfixed upon our place within
these darknessful foreboding skies,
as if we have a right to usurp worship
while we aggrandize our trite self-serving
multiplicity of told and untold lies.

Please do not be offended if I ask:
“What shape do you think your
disappearance here would make?”
Even those you think would miss you
(including those who plenty kissed you)
very soon forget your face (and even diss you).
Some years (earth-time) further down the line
from when your cold cadaverous “smile” first
slides down the darksome mile preassigned,
there’s nothing left which takes your space.
You’re just an empty memory trace! 😃

Now a rage of voices blasts against my ears
Saying: “What about those lovely souls who
gave their all for those less blessed than them?
Mother this and Father that. Are they not
forever to be honoured and remembered
for the awesome works they rendered?”
[And here I have to smile at the naivety
and folly of delusion which this fallen world
(with all its wanton need for positivity) entails;
and which, because of that, will ultimately fail].

The harsh reality is, my friends, that those
who float around the globe performing “good”
so all the world can see their so-called charity
are not without some load of sly self-serving
own agenda (this, in spite of all their splendour)
OR they are in cryptic craven clear complicity with
those we euphemistically call “the powers that be”.

For all true good takes place away from public
glare — seeks neither honour nor to see itself
declared before all human eyes as something
special. For doing good’s enjoined upon us all
by dint of being people made to have such
stratospheric flight that even all the angels
[I refer to those which never baulked at service
and, because of faithfulness, they never fell]
will marvel at the sight of those few souls who,
in the art of true humility, do properly excel.

So when you start to fret about your own posterity,
bear in mind that no one on this earth can truly read
what lies within another’s soul (unless they, by their
fruits, have shown the hole within their empty hearts).
Those paraded through the world as heroes, heroines
and wondrous souls may well be hypocrites who have
(through cleverness) perfected, preened and honed
their superficially-outward benefactor roles
(which history shows to be the case and will
have hidden consequences for their souls).
In similar vein, a serial killer, crushed within from birth,
brought up to have no sense of worth (determined
to destroy those things which will remind him of
the love he never had nor never knew and in such
emptiness he grew), maybe is not much worse than
someone thought to have great worth, but who
for real in secret is in dark exploits immersed.

What matters is, when all’s been said and done
[and this applies to everyone], that we should
never seek to be admired (in adulation’s coat
attired) nor to feel the smugful glow of pride;
but knowing quietly inside the dulcet tones
of humble hunger’s harp we then outsmart
all trumpet trace of vanity’s cigar while knowing
the complexity of who we are we seek no
special place in history’s grand bazaar of names
remembered from afar. For all that’s taken to account
is how we have prepared our souls for taking up our
future role when earth to earth and ashes we become.

Will we [transfigurated, free from matter’s skein at last]
become the butterflies and fulfilled sighs that we
were really meant to be when, finally, we take our place
at our conclusion of the cosmic race (no more ensconced
within this life of “lowercase”) be by our Maker’s side?

 

 

© Alan Morrison, 2019

One thought on “The Trumpet and the Harp

    djsbzbee said:
    August 19, 2019 at 4:26 am

    This is exactly how it happens. It’s official: The Times Are Grievous. This is the right touch on the subject of universal hypocrisy. Excellent contrast. ❤

    Like

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