Yet Forever Is Still Too Short Poem by Orin MSH

Yet forever is still too short,
A time for lamenting reckless dreams,
The noble ideals all poets do exhort,
The epitome and wisdom that one deems
The beauty of the world to us do seem
Youth's idle fancies; mere wool-gathering
And time should not suffice to rub away
This fevered verse that white scholars gleam
Unwritten in Philosophy's austere volumes
Impalpable to the uncouth and the mundane
In dusty tomes and books for many centuries
When they mistook the world for revelries.

Are we ventriloquists who speak
Without ever moving our lips?
Are we dreamers in strange reveries
With neither rest nor sleep?
All strings attached, hooked to the skin and being
But drowsed entire in somnolence.
Were your hands bound, and ankles chained?
Were your will caged, your agency shackled?
Though bound unfettered, though drowned you rise
Wickedness will never triumph though the saviour falls
All the faithful and steadfast sing their wordless praise

And forever is not too long,
Ago, a moment of passing madness
Deep in regrets and the everlasting sadness
In a world given to the cruel and the surreal
How the sun flashes too bright that scalds the skin;
How the waves thump with too much force the regal sea
How harsh the winds that blow that breaks our backs
How the moon glows she too faint that strains the eyes
From reading the fading lines of joys and sorrows on your face
Outlined in the bluest hues, how rarer thus is made

Her beauty unsurpassed, such fair nobility
The gracefulness and kindness unfeigned
That is but her true natural temperament
Up high upon the heavens, down by the valleys low
How lovely flows her delicate raiment, her fairness shows
Undrapes the flesh, lithe shadows follow
her wherever she must go
And jolts the poet out of his opiate sense in such violent throes

So near to death that no joy can appease nor compose
Life's beauty and her never ending, never ceasing melody
Could nothing mar her brightly plume; none could ever oppose
That rhythm moves the frothing waves in deep frozen seas
That throb and shake the hills where two rivers do meet
Knocks over the stars, the moon around their impetuous orbit
Fine Luminaries above that shine the brightest in our heaven
That strike the sticks and stones ignited in the fiery deep
Even the infinite shall not suffice, they shall soon weep
To decimate our gentile populace with their pogrom
Their insidious program of deceit, a mouthful of lies
The truthful slander and forthright surmise
The ravages of centuries, the horrific millenniums
Pass through the epoch of unbecoming; an utter delirium

Some let them make a choice out of despair
Some let them build citadels out of thin air
Some let them raise cold sculptures of disrepair
But still some make a thing of unrivalled beauty
And some might build warm dwellings of kindliness
And some might raise such bravely-worded homily.

Out of the ruins and the wreckage that is this life
Though hearts be chained, not all that's left is strife
For drudging souls whose hour drags on by drearily.
Despondent souls feel an eternity
Has not yet passed in this sullen dejected mood
For poets often lie pensively bemused and brood
Of Love's unfinished piece and interludes
Before the curse of vanity and pride brutishly intrude.

O Joy O Rapture O wondrous Euphoria
Whose pulchritude grows in seasons ever fair
Than golden flowers that garland and wreathe
With glorious scents, such dazzling petals
That decorate their hidden, sylvan ministries.
Never to wilt, nor droop nor languish
Nor lose its luster nor its sheen; a Light
An endless beacon that will always shine
For beauty's sake at her sacred shrine
To hold it from fading out into oblivion
And never to sleep to dream again
In deep enfolding darkness without any gleam
Of sweet salvation, the ever brightening one
For having none of its sweetness, though still living
Lives life incorporeal, yet breathes nothing.
How sweeter can our fancies they be? Ever-brimming
With hope and bliss, our quiet desires; our faint yearnings

When we are free to choose, yet choose not we
To be and to become what we now ought to be
And not this counterfeit, frail semblance
Of youthful mien and child-like temperaments
Forever in time, with eyes that now can see
With ears that grasp and lips that speak
His truth, His will, In His Kingdom to come
To the ones without faith, sight and ears
Mouth the unknown with rancor and spite
That the world may still gleam and glint despite
The stars, our ceaseless candles, snuffed out like the sun
We raise our arms to battle only with sticks and stones
And the sloe-bound, priest-black branches
In a slewed darkness at once, familiarly strange.

O Joy O Bliss O utmost Rapture
Whose pulchritude grows in seasons ever fair
How quickly intuition steps into the helm
Gilded carriage drawn by Arion and Becephalus
Orion, the hunter in the sullen sky signals to us
To send out our thoughts as heralds into the forever dark
Our sky-bright emissary to the vulgar wilderness
Blessing the enduring meadow, its flowers and weed
O Ceaseless beauty, O Wanton child
There, the herald-poet waits in the shrouding mist
With reed in his right hand and on the other, mead

Blows he the bugle call, portending what's to come
The seed of what is changing; an outcome hanging
In the ancient winds, still, unchanging.
May no seasons, warm or wintry halt
What must now be the prelude to an end?
May we still breathe in the stilted air
When the wicked usurps the divine
That heaves and waits in the twilight breeze
And leaves us behind to drown in grieve
Until what was to be is found
With easeful Sleep and Night
The doubly dark reprise.

The clouds of doom that was there all along
And waits within the days, its ending and the skies
Fill now with locusts, worms, and death-winged flies
Submits to God who sifts through right and wrong
The humble chaffs and husks that one denies
Until the angels, cherubs, seraphim anoint
Our words, our deed, our will
Until this time and all
Its seconds stand still.