Tonight on a breath less than fleeting
But do not linger for long.
If what I hear is what I am missing
Then it is beauty unabashed, the
Meaning of what I have yet to understand.
Tomorrow is too late.
In my midst beauty turns to memory.
Hear the whispers so soon already,
Here, tonight, I awoke for my
Cynicism is not wholly encompassing.
Afford me such and I, too, will forgive.
Tomorrow will be too late, idealism
Suffers greatly, unlearned in patience.
And on a path well worn diffidence
Is its journey’s companion.