Alas our lives are not really ours.
We are nothing but bound and prone to hazard,
en-route to defy and overcome but this is a fit only
for the strong of spirit.
At the mercy of our creator we strive and hope for dreams
so far fetched from our reach we begin to ponder.
Ponder yet I wonder as my amorphous thoughts wanders for
means to exude imaginations of success.
As the warm humid summer air intimately caresses my face.
It becomes clear, dreams are nothing but hopeless aspirations with
the hope of becoming true,used most vigorously by those of ill fate.
Thus to what end shall one continue to deceive oneself. Verily of course,
our course of action ripples through the fabric of time and space, and the
contiguity of the past and present
© Dotun Gb | Poems