Lee Imuede Poems

As life is but a gilded house of clay,
Each day, a host of guests return anew,
With joys or sorrows, darkness or affray,
Each embarking from a path that's askew.
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In man's fractured odyssey through life's plane,
What marks the zenith of his mortal gain?
Is it boundless wealth, a deified shrine,
Or the fleeting awe of a fickle design?
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Take me back to Mama
Under whose bosom we began,
That her soothing pat of invocations
May gape the part we once sought.
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In ancient days, when Eden bloomed,
And life was cleanly pure and fair,
The serpent sly, with tongue perfumed,
Deceived with subtle lure and snare.
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