intrepid whim

Why does one cling 

to a moment altogether brief?

Time can't provide relief 

for the silly wants we weave, 

strung out in solitude as widows who weep.

How can all our hopes be met

like poems each to pet 

with strokes of a petty pen?

Not all rhyme schemes score a win.

Take Keats, a failure at 5 & twenty.

Later, still, his words in plenty we keep--

tokens of intrepid whim.

Perhaps, old loves will rise as him--

ashes prove the right to begin. 

To begin and then to begin again. 

Perhaps, our love will rise as him--

ashes prove the right to begin. 

To begin and then to begin again.