I Implore,

We who would write,
Beautiful recollections,
And strange perceptions,
We need not suffer.
All too soon,
Does this specter beckon,
With lovely lies,
Which fill our hearts.
We need not mourn,
Not for the future, though,
Perhaps for the past,
If only at peace, at last.
For, sadness speaks,
No man would doubt this,
But smiles sing,
And calmness cures.
Our futures,
This life in our words,
It is not sorrow.
It is not simple,
It is not single.
It is life;
True life.