Every season
In nature’s bent,
Finds purpose
For renewal,
That celebrates
Each wont advent
Not as infinity’s rival
But a cycle of revival…
Yet we creatures
Suffer brevity
Of a single stay,
A hoped-for reach
Though time decreed
Life be held brief,
And so ephemeral
Deemed beg amend
Wouldst be in vain,
To imitate seasons
That never fully fade,
Thus likely reason
Life then returns again!
As I observe
The hand
That feeds,
Wants serve
The life I live
With verve,
Fashioned so
As fate did give,
To find contrive
Thru every curve
Meant stay alive,
Be worth invest
In destined strides,
Hence to survive
The waning signs
We visualize,
Protuberant veins
Neath thinning skin
Covers aging within,
Telling of life ephemeral
The while bemoaning
Mind means decline,
This hand will feed me still!
I question why
The best of life
Be ephemeral,
Thus so decry
Its slower pace,
To reach in time
Beyond cerebral,
This meagre space
Said be prize place,
When joy of mind
A longed for state,
Man wouldst rejoice
Thru wisdom’s take,
That may but come
In the twilight wake
Of my life’s journey!
Poetry on a canapé 