Like those magnificently lonesome trophies -
once hard fought for
with all our might and capacity
and then left to rot on the rocks;
abysmally, in perpetuity -
all laurels and triumphs get jaded and weary
dominions faded and supremacy sickly.
Every hard earned victory
once immaculate and pristine
succumbs to frivolous, lame apathy.
The slick sheen gathers blemish
in barren whispers of ungracious hearts
silently, firmly, surely
for once at the apogee
desire - the very impulse to aspire - furtively departs.
It is present during the ascent
but when the apex is won
the zest is swiftly defunct
subverting the very fuel to be peppy -
leaving us all bled, spent, petty.
There is simply no mystery or intrigue anymore
as passion fizzles out and gives up the ghost.
The lustre peels and withers
forsaken, listless, tattered.
No wonder then
that it is baffling to be thankful
for something so ostensibly chipper
...yet dreary, hackneyed, ephemeral
under those glowing amber covers.
Pursuit, on the contrary
is thrilling -
buoyant, snappy, racy.
Powered by desire
all consuming and fiery
it spurs us on
but then fretting comes easy
with every little mis-step
or importunate want.
We grieve in sleep as well
dreaming and planning
about what we lack
instead of wakefully celebrating
our sublime bounty
and prized treasure stack.
Despairingly lost in notional worlds
we then innocently rue:
Why life is not distributed normally?
Why the negative skew?
Why is gratitude more arduous
than it is to accuse?
Or why winning seems spurious
and losing so disproportionately true?
Know then that desire is the architect -
creating and perpetuating
us and our countless worlds -
A crackerjack industry
of solutions, hopes and warranties
with inevitably concealed and crafty
toxic downstream corollaries
that make success seem pale and phlegmatic
somewhat misty, a little tepid
while failure looms conspicuously
snarling viciously in fervid agony.
© Chandra S., 2020