Man- The Maker Of His Own Destiny

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: May 21, 2018

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Submitted: May 21, 2018

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It was perhaps natural if the deserts blamed the flaming Sun for acrimoniously blistering into tumultuous heat; as they were perpetually unable to do anything; other than just relentlessly whirling into a pool of disdainful dust and mirage; all night and
brilliant day,

It was perhaps natural if the trees blamed the vengeful hurricanes for devastating their blissful entity into an inconspicuously bedraggled heap; as they were perpetually unable to anything; other than just incessantly embedding their roots deeper and
deeper into stony cocoons of lackluster soil,

It was perhaps natural if the crops blamed the torrential floods for wholesomely disorienting them into pools of frigidly soiled banana skins; as they were perpetually unable to do anything; other than just obediently sway in the direction of the
nimble winds,

It was perhaps natural if the frogs blamed the despondent well for perniciously incarcerating them into dungeons of despair; as they were perpetually unable to do anything; other than just loquaciously leaping within the interiors; for countless more
births yet to unveil,

It was perhaps natural if the oceans blamed the fleet of ominously advancing ships for profusely adulterating their ravishingly tantalizing waters; as they were perpetually unable to do anything; other than just tirelessly undulating into a fountain of rhapsodically tangy froth,

It was perhaps natural if the roses blamed the abominable gutters for insidiously tarnishing its mystical island of ebullient scent; as they were perpetually unable to do anything; other than just blossom into eternal fragrance with the unfurling of ethereal dawn,

It was perhaps natural if the grass blamed the treacherously trampling juggernaut of trucks for squashing them indiscriminately into graveyards of horrendous death; as they were perpetually unable to do anything; other than just fluttering in unbelievably aristocratic unison; to the commands of the seductively enthralling breeze,

It was perhaps natural if the mountains blamed the brutally freezing snow for making them ludicrously shiver even in the heart of the flamboyantly boisterous day; as they were perpetually unable to do anything; other than just gigantically tower into the
handsome gorge of clouds; for boundless more births yet to unveil,

It was perhaps natural if the dungeons blamed the ominous blackness for barbarically asphyxiating them in galleries of unsurpassable doom; as they were perpetually unable to do anything; other than just being timelessly submerged infinite kilometers; beneath the surface of jubilant earth,

It was perhaps natural if the nightingale blamed the ferocious lion for satanically massacring the celestial melody in its fascinating sound; as it was perpetually unable to do anything; other than just beautiful unveil the mesmerizing chords of its throat;
to incomprehensible ecstasy,

It was perhaps natural if the photograph blamed euphoric vivaciousness for continuously teasing it to beyond the threshold limits of endurance; as it was
perpetually unable to do anything; other than just stare in patient innocuousness; infinite hours on the trot,

It was perhaps natural if the spider blamed the wildly whirling winds for decimating its web into a pulverized junkyard; as it was perpetually unable to do anything; other than just frantically run and suspend itself nervously from the silken strands,

It was perhaps natural if the honey blamed the lethally venomous snake for salaciously marauding its township of ebullient sweetness; as it was perpetually
unable to do anything; other than just ooze into a enchantingly spell binding harmony; every unveiling instant of the day,

It was perhaps natural if the rainbows blamed the viciously clandestine clouds for snobbishly obfuscating their vibrantly resplendent sparkle; as they were perpetually unable to do anything; other than just vividly sprout up and stringently adhere to
the sky; in times of both Sunshine and bountiful rain,

It was perhaps natural if milk blamed stagnatingly dilapidated water for rendering its immaculately salubrious persona into a worthless pool of insipid nothingness; as it was perpetually unable to anything; other than just cascade in synergistic harmony from the sacred teats of Mother cow,

It was perhaps natural if the parrots blamed cages for surreptitiously imprisoning their compassionately uninhibited freedom; as they were perpetually unable
to do anything; other than just cheekily chirp in innocently holistic tandem,

It was perhaps natural if the ants blamed the savagely marching elephants for squelching them to countless kilometers beneath their veritably stinking graves; as
they were perpetually unable to do anything; other than just harmlessly squirm in collective troops and symbiotically upon cold soil,

It was perhaps natural if the fruits blamed the capricious branches of the tree for hurling them uncouthly towards the apathetic ground at the slightest draught of breeze; as they were perpetually unable to do anything; other than just robustly augmenting in shape and size; as time merrily elapsed by,

But it was unfathomably preposterous if man blamed the Almighty Creator for his unrelenting string of ridiculous failures; for although the Omnipotent Lord
had majestically spawned him with passionately crimson blood and bone; he was himself and irrefutably the maker of his own destiny.


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