This life is a wilful deceit.
A conspiracy of conceit.
Smite the ticking clock and the looking glass,
We each live immortal lives to the last.
Tomorrow is king of today.
Yet, what of duty? What of beauty?
What of love and truth you say?
Who will tend the garden
that we planted on the way?
Worry not for your small plot,
the fading rose etiolated
As new life springs from old life’s ashes
so, fear shall be ameliorated
Even as those prayers you proffer
The plot’s already under offer
Tomorrow is king of today
Aaron Marchant lives in the rolling Chiltern Hills in UK, where he enjoys walking among the bluebell woods and occasionally finding poetic inspiration whilst enjoying a beer in the garden of a country pub.