Paradox Poem by Jonathan ROBIN

Spectacles on nose, pouch under eye,
age is sucked remorselessly to night
all too aware there is no hope in_sight
for resurrection story books supply.
What does our time [s]t[r]apped sojourn signify?
What sense is gleaned once cased in coffin tight
or scattered to the winds? What wrong or right
remains to trace each in[t]ner face? And why
would most defer the final strangled sigh,
would most prolong the agony despite
the finite frontiers of Man’s falcon f[l]ight?
Who can ‘self’ free, mortality defy?
Who could decode life’s mysteries might find
a paradox with ‘self-destruct’ designed...