Money: Life
They call it 'life' in currency,
Men give their lives to get it.
They spend seconds, minutes, hours
And years to accumulate this pricey commodity.
In this bid, they have lost their lives;
They lost essence and purpose.
Each day is a replay of the previous;
Yea, as a movie seen hundreds of times.
Like the staleness of old meat,
It drains the heart of appentency.
They who boast themselves in knowingness
Of 'purpose' are captured by this haunt,
Enslaved by its core falsity.
'Purpose' to men became making impact
For the world to hand them their wages:
To see them for their creativity,
To see them for their intellectuality,
To see them for self-mastery
And bow at this awe of empty fruition,
Giving up a harvest of their own lives.
Such, which cannot keep nor sustain;
That which is void of true seed,
Handicapped of true replication of good.
That which beguile friends into foes;
Arch-rivals into stage-drama allies,
Fashioned to tell the truthful lie to an audience.
Like shattered vessels, they are patched
But, they won't form a whole.
Like vessels touched anew by the potter,
They need be clay once more.
In the advent of striving for a voice,
Men are lost in infinite memory;
They are undone from this place
Only to rise to the throne of remembrance.
Their eyes wide-open, they see
That voice is given, not taken.
That voice was meant to be given.
For it is not of our earning
But a gift, priceless.
To purpose, voice is like oxygen
It is but a gift to a generation
A product of selfless service
In which harvest of wages is not motive
But, giving of life and voice
Till money itself is gifted us
Till we see it not as a produce of toil
But, as a gift of selfless giving;
Hereby, we see that life is but a gift.
SUBOR V. J. POWEI