In the heat of all your own passions

Don’t forget, my friend,

To tend to your own garden too.

For when your road must come to an end

On looking back, you shouldn’t find

That weeds have overrun the seeds

That you had sown with such tender love and care.

What good is it then

If closer home your saplings lie burnt

In the scorching heat of your daily obsessions,

But further afield lie the Edens of your creativity?

We owe it to those that we love

To give them what they too deserve.

We owe it to ourselves to remain human

In our quest to be models for all of humanity.

Hard work is good!

But our dedication shouldn’t  burnished lie in these earthly rewards.

For throughout eternity,

Our deepest sighs will always be  poor recompense

For those we brought in, but lost within our fold

Should our passions force us to spurn

The lingering scent of our own roses-

That bloomed, withered and wilted

Unloved, unseen, unrecognised

To our trained eyes-

What an irony would we become?

What did we possibly hope to be?

If not the poor canonised Prophets of old,

Who died in the blaze of their own personal despair?