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Poem

Each moment of my existence has been,
Hard strife toward keeping my conscience clean;
As a washer-man makes linens spotless,
How I wish my heart to be pure! Blotless...!

I'm not dwelling in an angelic space,
Wherein environs are adorned with grace;
Fields of all seasonal grains surround me,
Thorny thickets thrive here fearlessly free...!

Passions are like dusts of harvest season,
Fine like gem fragments, but, full of treason;
Pleasant fleetingly, like a feather touch,
Machines of blood, veins, and heart they declutch...!

Like mad horses pulling the cart apart,
Sensuous senility plays games smart; 
It's as hard as pulling back a ship, wrecked,
I assemble my efforts love bedecked...!

Is my consciousness, yet, this much only?
Is it with friends, or, often, feel lonely?
As an ant, each of my steps is priceless,
Does life turns, yet, ultimately, viceless...?

Can a devotee expect his fruit, yet?
Could there be, in faith and trust, any debt?
I travel midst many a mental threat,
Strife toward goodness is my sole asset...!!!


26 April 2023
Refining consciousness Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Unseeking Seeker

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