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The Sum Of Man

11 Nov

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What gods are we,
that in our nights
of soul wonder,
we hold such flights
in vague thunder,
and make our beds
of silk and gold,
and fill our heads
with tales of old;
what gods are we,
yet fragile mortals still.

What kings are we,
that with our reigns,
we call to gods
when ardor wanes,
and yet, at odds,
we feign defeat,
our mortal days
as made replete;
so, in our ways,
no kings are we,
but merely men of frill.

What bartered squires
are we who charge
that life is played,
a game so large,
our stalwart frayed;
and yet, with pen,
we scribe our thought,
in affect, then,
our world is wrought;
with barters made,
we seal our earthly will.

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Posted by on November 11, 2015 in My Poetry

 

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