want to save, but nothing saved
at this world to lose we fated
no matter, love, or dish
we are lose our every wish
want to catch, but my arms empty
so much pleasures, so plenty
but all pleasures turns to pain
questions only "how" and "when"
want to love but lose all chances
i am late at all good races
love is redy for good punch
we are lose if waits too much
ver.2 for all, who want right poetry (thank to my editor)
Seek to save, yet naught is saved,
In this world, to lose we're graved.
Be it love, or trifling dish,
We lose each whimsy, every wish.
Strive to catch, yet arms lay bare,
Pleasures ample, everywhere.
Yet all joys to pain do shift,
In queries of "how?" and "when?" we drift.
Yearn to love, yet chances fly,
Too late to join the races high.
Love stands ready for a bruising punch,
We lose if we delay too much.
But in me, a youthful sprite,
In playful whispers of the night,
Finds magic in the constant fray,
Transmuting fears to play's ballet.
She dances in temptation's wind,
Her tender heart, a sacred hymn.
A seductive soliloquy of hope and strife,
As she pirouettes, she draws new life.