Held be instant
On life’s clock,
Prods the infant
Time finds stalk,
Till soul senescent
Begs for distance,
That lessens load
Of aging baggage,
One need dispose
To bury ravage,
Excesses imposed
Of borne instants,
Living composed!
Looking
For reasons,
Not to suppose,
That by and by
I’ll not dispose,
For me to abide
As I want compose…
Looking
At thoughts,
That questions
The soul,
Shadowed in doubt
Yet passing for whole,
When worth I gave
May have dried out,
Hence less than brave
I’ve agonized about,
A premature bide
In fates grave reside…
Looking
To find serenity,
That shan’t confine,
To narrowed time!
A book in search
Of giving birth
To pages blank,
Hopes but record
Views so composed,
With words’ accord
To author predisposed,
Might ease the way
That dare initiate
A scribe’s want say,
Upon a virgin page
Empty so, intimidates
The while a book awaits
Words chose breathe life,
To uninhabited blank pages!
