Rubaiyat of Ghosts

One can, who strangers scan, too few admire,
as most play ghosts deprived of phantom choir,
tripping, tripping up, upon life’s board,
stillborn refuting intimate desire.

In game of give and take what ranks the higher
self-interest or charity? Enquire
about ambitions intimate, bond word,
suspicion from the shadows whispers: 'Liar! '

Most men as puppets dance upon a wire
taut from birth to death, - as seller, buyer,
taught to act and not to BE - Fate’s sword
to dust must sooner, later, each retire.

So few dare seek far stars, less dare aspire
for freedom, seldom search above their mire,
for seventy or eighty years life’s cord
they eke out, seldom seeking something higher.

A burning bush survived the blazing fire,
and witness stands to Time the purifier -
yet oil on troubled waters oft is poured
by those who spurn each prophet as a liar.

Life is too short. Who’d play the poet’s lyre
must tame the vagrant strings, the versifier
tunes into harmony whose every chord
responds to inspiration all desire.

poem by Jonathan Robin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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