The Monarch Of Futility
Firmly do we embrace the shadow of an ambiguous pride,
realising but least the falsity of an illusioned ride;
for we all are but monarch of a deed yet to be done,
vainly aspiring for the divine glory that this pride of the self has eternally burned...
We know not how far are we the monarch of a purpose we know,
as we all soar above with a deception of futility promised never to glow;
every act that we think to boast upon humanity alone;
is nothing but an illusion, where estimation of the self is in reality never shown...
we thrive not by our pride but by our deeds,
tumbling to prosper we are more like mutilated shreded weeds;
like them do PRIDE rise rejecting the footprints of mortals ever known,
twirling round mortality we strive to ignore the truth that divinity has impartially shown...
We fail to hide and hide to fail,
knowing the venomous pride that by birth lures us to our ineluctable hell,
thus the day we ought be monarch of wisdom born anew,
our chariotted virtue will behold us along the path attended by few..
So to boast is to consciously die,
where every endeavoured act waves an eternal goodbye;
to prosper is by divinity to behold a truth,
that in reality our pride is nothibg but the monarch of futility alone....
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