FIFTEEN YEARS OLD
Fleeting times call me here, and
I responded to the summons;
Fate raised me to this temporary rostrum--
The threshold of youth I ne'er trusted to last.
Every hour smells of an illusory fragrance
Every day bears the mask of deceit;
Now I stand here, young, but not for long.
Yes, youth the cloth of dreaming expedites
Every ambition, every dream nurturing, but
Are dreams to be dreams forever?
Read the future, am I to be its "fair hope"?
Something seems not quite right.
O, but the times here me call,
Lo! They want me here, but arises a question:
Do I deserve on this pedestal being?
BINABASA MO ANG
Messages from My Soul
PoetryA collection of poems, essays, reflections, and short stories I hope you'll enjoy. ---Israel/deathstarhunter
