We are but fleeting shadows in this medium of time
Flickering but briefly on eternity's screen,
Fading from memory when we go out.
A specious immortality blesses a few,
Reputations enhanced or traduced in Clio's fickle pages.
The rest are scurrying ants,bent upon their tasks.
Unlike ants,we suffer from delusions of grandeur,
Believing that what we do is meaningful.
We crave meaning as addicts their substances.
Without it,we drown in dejection or do drugs,
Floundering for survival,clinging fast to illusion.
Will we ever learn to go with the flow?
When Death comes knocking for you,
As come He most certainly will,
Will you cringe like a miser in fear,
Hoarding a few moments more?
Or will you throw wide in welcome the door,
Freely abandoning baubles once held dear?