15

Now, I must grasp this fleeting breath,

Before the shadow speaks of death.

This urgent task, this burning need,

To plant the solitary seed.

The moment calls, no time to wait,

Lest I should seal my own sad fate.

For who spoke whispers of the coming sun?

Who said the race was not yet run?

Who painted pictures, soft and wide,

Of chances held, and time allied?

That gentle voice, that soothing plea,

Promising what would surely be.

They spun a web of tranquil ease,

A distant shore, beyond the breeze.

"Tomorrow's light," they softly crooned,

While life's swift melody was crooned.

And I, a fool, believed the tale,

Let present opportunity fail.

But now I know, with chilling dread,

The empty words that they had fed.

The easy promise, light and vain,

That eased the present's pressing pain.

No future dawn, no second chance –

Just this one precarious dance.

Who told you about tomorrow?

They lied.

The only truth is here, inside

This vibrant, pulsing, present beat.

The future's built on hurried feet.

It's now or never, sharp and clear.

The only moment truly here.