An Ode to Now

There once was in my youthful state that manic crave of ill repute, oh destitute the wayward way, like I who stayed the plot and grazed my heart to once be lame but guiled it so to make me brave: so wicked living onward crave. How does the wind feel from the east that blows in hair and shakes the beast to fall to knees and quake like thunder for how the world is full wonder, so it lacks the thoughtful heart and ills it so much pain.

Now I who locked my thoughts in airy grasp could gasp that gastful arching way. OH I pray from day to day that I can say what makes me brave, but lost to what can make me strong. How does it stir within this womb of heart that grows to some unholy child that ages mocked and spit on by the popular differential.

How could I beg of any one to know where morals lead and truth should go? When I, so young, once fell to words. The start was word, and ends silence. I'd brake the silence with just one word, to make me stronger than the heart could tell in phrases from a pen, or in a shallow quandary, laid to rest in someone's grave of mem'ries lost. It hurts me now to see my feeling lost to gayful mindless dribbles, thrown to wind and westward blown to once again shake that beast that holds me low.

And the word is Now.