Mark

Do you know how often we are tainted by pride? This poem is about the lie many of us buy.

There is common want shared by men.
Every single one wants to leave a mark,
though hearts be light or maybe dark.
Some engrave by war and others by pen.
Fathers raise their children and
guide them with love.
Praises are sung when they move on.
Few seek praise from above,
so alas everything will be gone.
The few who succeed in trivial trial:
to raise their legs… also die.
Even memorials and museums will end.
Perhaps quaked by earth or wobbled by war.
Years go by and only time won’t bend.
Mortal fame is a clever lie.