Man

Consuming, consumed in, consumed by the world,
The degree of our depravity deduced by our inability to disconnect,
The river of degradation runs deep,
Wherein we lie drowning, not counting blessings
But the seconds when we're not chasing the world,
As if the absence of consumption is suffocating.
Blessed. Blind.
A man with a gift so precious, heaven's heart would implode,
A man with a gift, burdened both by the weight of its message
And the arrogance of his naive acceptance to deliver the same.
The message is sweet, bound by the mesmerising curves of its letters
And its mellifluous flow;
its recitation the height of angels' envy,
Masked only by their vigilance at the tipping of the scales.
So tick tock, walk with the clock
And make these moments count.