T. G. P poems

Vast this territory might be
breeding laborers by 'holy' be
Who chooses nought adays
rather wealth maker of hay

Assiduous some might seem
tilling more than the rich aims
Yet still, they were his errand
and destiny as a seismic around,

Never sympathize with the lack
but rather lurks behind their luck
and such fate would say,
"This life plays its part unfair"

In life, if you are destined to be great
no evil can hinder the firm resolve of such fate
but those destined the latter,
nowadays cut corners to solve their matter

"This is wrong" my absolute soul baffles
as all we lord one day will be kindle
by those who does not witness its genesis
thus, it create an inevitable nemesis

Yes; I say, "this life is vanity",
Which unravels us to mind our frailty
as destiny itself plays a better part of valor
Only to vanish at the door of funeral parlor.

(the gladden scribbles)