Frame Work Poem by Jonathan ROBIN

The Present is a precious rug
under which, with care, we sweep,
the Past that few desire undug, -
but through weft warped heaped dust must seep...

Though some may carp while others pet,
the end result remains the same,
those past forgot, those left forget,
pick up the pieces of the game
Life plays with Death, as unpaid debt
and credit balance out to tame
ambitions high whose overthrow
comes when sun’s zenith blinds to shame, -
alike pride, selflessness, and show,
bluff, bluster, submission, lofty aim,
both fear of here and of hereafter,
present tears, and present laughter,
oblivion snuffs all (t) race of fame,
and fossil light frame who will know –
or what – when swallowed every name
by Time whose rhymes and reasons flow
into forgetfullness or flame,
no sentience left to explain
how seasons come and seasons go.

The Present is a rug which, precious, held,
reels on towards a future film withheld,
and though we’d sweep the Past’s dead dust beneath,
it filters through, preparing our own wreath.