I am myself by Love’s design

Love’s thrill is not long
to balance out the tragedy
this poor suff’ring Heart
that must change in change herself
to endeavor the charms of fleeting
pleasures that charm when young
growing so old a few years later

Love has in store a kind of prosperity
of loyal years and pleasant goodbyes
that time and death become as friends
in time’s flight of fiery bliss
where with tender signs we review
all that has come to pass and gone
as if too soon, to sustain the memory

why is the Spring so sullen on summer’s brink?
ah, now I understand just what
beauty the flowers bear, the mothers sow
in the empathy of a lifetime and of servitude
love’s design is born to be the victim
of all mankind and instinct’s hunt
that cares not who falls and who shall rise.

This is a Heroick Haste

We must celebrate a funeral as a tribute
To a woman or a man’s life, applaud not only
Their achievements, but their character
For the notes of time in fact do not judge

We hasten to our end with hardly onlookers
Authentick by the choices we made
Or the choice of not choosing
Indecision being a kind of a choice

Apathy being a kind of vice of destiny
Opportunity does not wait, nor love
It comes and goes like the opening skies
Treason to ourselves we oft’ commit

Serving duties to title ourselves with praise
Praise as empty as the possessions we accumulate
Travel being a luxury for the fortunate
Not fortunate by merit, but oft’ by birth

This is the world we live in, the ordered inequality
We must celebrate this world before
It’s funeral, before even we go extinct
On our palms the weight of destiny

In our minds the aura of the future’s trade
Swift and restless are the seasons
To fly to wings of victory or perish
And not to a man’s stars can we assume

The choice was his or the storms portrayed
The soul of a man is indeed something else
Than the shallow roles he may have played
To subdue, to civilize, to humanize and to entertain.