The Futility Of Man Poem by Akachukwu Lekwauwa

O how futile
A man's reasoning has become,
And how faulted, daily
His judgement prove to be;
Futility abound wherever
He stakes his claim.

How futile!

And how often
He forgets, the abode
Of flesh and blood
Is not with the divine.

'Man is nothing but dust'_
Shut your ears
From hearing this sermon!
For man is really more than dust,
He is indeed not crust,
For a brief time
The dust rises and
Is blown away by the wind;
But, man does not pass _
Away with the earth.

Their breathe continue
To reverberate,
Some, into echoes of mercies,
And whispers of joy;
Some into gnashing of teeth,
And shrieking.

If only
He will fine-tune his breathe
While he has the knob.