The Trilogy of Life---part2

The ways of the world.

                                                                   THE INHERITANCE

    One day, or one days tomorrow, one shall turn his back to the world for his world has begun to change.

  And one day, when all has gone from clover to thistle, and multitudes have gone from fragrance to stench

  And the deviates have permeated into a catalyst of wrong, and all have deemed their way proper,

then he shall face the world and once again he will make the sun shine with new meaning.

  And in our humble minds and until this comes to pass, we sit, we watch, we wait, until this comes alas.

  And as we sit and wonder, and allow our minds to ponder, a senario may bloom which spells of doom

and counters in a fiction of what if......perhaps soon!

  For to say that he is coming or that he surely has been, those chosen ones of yesteryear, or this new breed locked in sin.

  But all is not locked indeed, for somewhere there must be a few, there must be the meek who shun the temptous flow, and see the world a bright place in all their lives aglow.

  And then again and not to be rejected, a simple tribe in a jungle remote whose meekness should be respected.

  But what of the ones who negated, even though they were firmly related, they still sit and wait, they still sit and negate, and of meekness, perhaps theirs is rather of late.

  Then what of this mass of humanity, who have forgotten the meaning of vanity, they see their way clear, have lost all their fear, and see their way as the cross to bear.

  So, of all who believe, and all who perceive, and all who wonder the day, perhaps it's the beggar this maker has cradled, and chosen to lead all away.

  And what of the maker who sends down his helper, who may be among us today.  Is it man or beast or friend or foe, or maybe a bird of prey.

  Or perhaps man's thoughts, all wrapped up in one, with buttons to push and choose, and the numbers it possesses and souls it caresses, leaves little but many to lose.

  Or maybe this time an alien, his ship as thunder like trumpets, on the eve of Christmas, or who knows when, his strength may be our failing.

  For was it Mathusula and many his brotheren, who lived more than nine hundred years.  Tis' strange to say, but what is a day, on yon planet, what is a year?

  And so, on it goes, who are the meek, and who will call when its time, and these plagues that are upon us in a generation or less,

may leave only you and thine...........