(A poem by a Father to his son, telling him that life is not just a bouquet of roses to be smelt, but a pack of prickles to be dealt with.)
I want thy to imagine,
A piece of Perfection,
Steal thee from the limelight of thy life,
A moment of naught insurrection.
Dawning winter morning,
A static sketch of the Sun,
Having Hope, Heaven and Humanity,
Where Bliss blows and Misery shun.
Where thy shuddered never,
With Indomitable instances,
To prove thy strength ever,
Having brimmed thy life…
...with ecstatic enhances.
Does that fear thou feel,
Impact thee with sensation?
Neither lust nor acrimony,
Does in your Life have Invasion.
You, dear Son!
Was living in a dream of drums,
Where the beats banged boastful,
The drum, hollow and atrocious.
There was neither truth nor falsehood,
But a piece of Fantasy so Ferocious,
To be the Perfect Picture of Prize,
And remain untouched, unaligned.
That’s not Life dear Child,
It demands disdain and Pain,
Strives for love and gain,
We cannot grace the tick of time,
Yet embrace its perpetuity and pace.
Live a man who stands aloof,
Of Pretence, Fancy and Subterfuge.
Animate thyself as a gentleman,
Eminent in the Intricacy of Life rules.