The future, they say, is a dicey proposition
The procrastinating pundits notwithstanding,
Our future arouses a dense mist of apprehension,
Seemingly tyrannized by our present doing
We are credulous fools in the flow of time
Our torch of angst dimly probing the dark lanes
Feebly hoping to thaw the layers of rime
And trying to stop the chauffer less wains
A trifling victory makes it more scintillating
And brighter than the brightest star
A miniscule loss induces a dull foreboding
And makes our destiny further than far.
We hobble along on crutches of karma,
Having fatuous faith in “good reaps good”,
Not realising that future is a fickle giant,
Perniciously misleading more than it should.
It tantalisingly lures gullible men
Into believing in its Omni altruism,
But one should cautiously tread in this fen,
For the faces of future exceed those of a prism.
It is dangerously enticing and paradoxically guileless
Yet it has beheaded kings and enthroned paupers,
It is this style which feeds its savage wildness,
And awes even the greatest conquerors.