PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Allow me, while I am alive, to live life to the fullest.  In memoriun of memories lost and live like vapors tossed.  And, find another terrain for deceivers. Warm life is when it is sans pareil!  When I was young I thought all to be everlasting. Why must it be that pleasing things fade away.  While, the dearest dreams be held closer, closer than the rest.  Silence sits upon me now as lost ruins of the past sit all alone and I am with recollections as heavy as stone.  Intransigent I am now between the radiance of night's aurora and terra firma.  Terrene below and firmament above the vaulted sky.  The moon's emanations have not left for a place from which to welsh abaft the tracing veils.  Meandering white strips in the night's sky have now abated. Withal, where have the untroubled stars gone? Reminiscence lingers from the black perspectives of past sojourns.  And, of being far from the comforts of amenities.  I recall pleasant days, distant those are now.  I have left pleasing sights behind, fearing never to recall to mind these pleasing places again, while regarding things pendule in the wind and beholding upon all that remains of what has aged and what still remains.  Pleasure lingers from pleasant things of the past.  Do you feel an oncoming of an élan to come? With each spring, blossoms to bring. Humanity is a far superior creature.  Yet, humans whither away, to pass away at an unchosen hour.  Enclosure, you allow not a single thing to remain.  The present has gotten perilous again.  Summer's sun has set.  My heart chills at which hour I think of difficult times, when I had been thrown crumbs, while there was not else to give, but malas migas they were not.  Something to me speaks that that which should be, satisfy, and that which is necessary be satisfying.  Winter has come but lasts a pleasing past.  She has combated her battle, full of strife, but has not won.  However, spring is shriveled and withered, trampled down and done until almost vanished like a blossom from the past.  It seems that everything living is to struggle to pray pardon soi: what 'is?'  Because, it 'is.'  Instinct nourishes desire and many a desire is mislaid.  In that the sun contracts thus, as it does, warm the world!  Shine down on us!  It is there at which hour we need it most.  I stay, I roam, but I have not left.  Here I am still, while living through the grapples of life.