Pageantry Of Being
When in summer the gilded days did frame
the seeds of life, the handsome blooms that dwell
in flowering youth, beauty loathe to tame
that which strives to their highest form excel;
so sweet, let not the slightest chill deface
the fragile blush that scents the breeze serene
nor hoary frost abounding in its haste
dare to still the pageantry of being.
Life coerced by time's complacency
thirsting each second and grander hour
and all that lived must then forever be
remade in ways beauty once empowered.
The culmination of this gift of death
the gilded days did frame and breathed its breath.