Ideally, working through the day;
Instead, trade chores for hours of play.
A little longer ‘fore you start;
First satisfy your selfish heart.

No warning when the black night comes;
Ironic dark, lights works undone;
Past goals of day so quick dart back.
Your drooping lids: deep sleep’s attack.

Now, what great purpose served your hours?
Indulging flesh, in darkness, cowers.
What purpose served your final hours?
It matters not; they’re laying flowers.

Aidan Keith

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/lilies-2/