Yea, I know, National Poetry Month has been and gone, but there is nothing wrong with a wee bit of poetry now and again. So here:
The Illusion.
How frail we are
how tenuous our hold,
what a strange trick of nature
that we should feel so bold.
To life tied by a silken thread
burning youth,
a new world vows to mould,
oblivious, as fate blindly cuts the thread,
without a sigh, leaves sweet youth so cold.
Middle age with confidence comes,
experience expands the illusion.
We cover the world in words of wisdom
believing we,
lead nature to the right conclusion,
but she with ease, a beauty all her own,
shows our naive plans as utter confusion.
At what age will we realise,
we always pay for our arrogant intrusion.
In old age we accept the fact
our time in nature's span is small.
How rich, life in nature's domain could be
if to foul greed we refused to fall.
Accept, we as beggars in her presence stand,
man can flourish and grow tall,
act as her lord and master,
she'll cast man aside like a cheap rag doll.
