Fleeting Realities

Let this wetness,
extend an invite to festoon one’s visage.
Seldom does the surface know,
the utility of moss through old age.

Let this darkness,
resolve the need for juxtaposition.
A dime still encourages men,
to seek beyond reason or position.

Let this coldness,
sweep the continent till the sunrise.
Only when one values the fall,
there is joy in the effort to rise.

Let this consciousness,
be my chief, helping in translation.
I walk alone to fathom,
this poem: my life with systems of scansion.