Of impulse

Don’t we all voluntarily ascend the stairs of despair
Or jump the valleys with spiked floors beneath
Speed through the roads to devastation
And spread our precious wings to frostbite
Just because ‘impulsive’ is a great feeling?

Is impulse the devil’s right hand man
For he comes dressed in garbs of appeal
Entices and blinds us to the obvious outcomes
And hazedly we follow his lead
To often wonder why so oblivious we’d been.

Or is he God’s little happy helper
Who colours the world with his happy zeal
A little short sight could be his shortcoming
But many a memories he generously imparts
Without him much duller the world would’ve been.