Glory of the past - Commune Writers

Gone like the dead were the days,
I stool and sneeze in and out of abundance.
Like as if possessed by the demon of wealth.
Why am I today telling the old tale?

I once dined with Life in its smiling years,
Playing and toying with the virtues of valor.
In the midst of broad but blunt spines,
That today place my apparel in a state called tattered.

Where are those youthful days?
When few pennies could have replicated,
To multiples spent with principles.
What a shame; on the face of yesterday.

Nature came to me in the calm atmosphere,
Beating discipline into my eardrums.
Spraying my olfactory with the aroma of the future.
What a pity, I yielded only to dancing.

I could hear the soft tone of my conscience,
Kicking spells of calmness into my brain.
Recalling to me, my frivolous entities,
Yet I kept building a golden castle in the air.

Life has just being a cunny friend,
Clothing me with wealth a while ago,
And honoring my feet with slippers,
Calling me colorful; rather than fruitful.

All the jewels that beautified my earlier days,
Now are worn by the bodies of the past.
Leaving me as important as a living dead,
Making my story a glory of the past.

Bolts of the past have gone rotten,
Only a chance of grace; can lubricate.
All these will be the daily manna of them,
Opening their laps to the defilement of life.

A Modified 2016/10/19 Article

Written by Abolaji Abraham


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