Sixty paltry seconds make a minute;
Another sixty minutes produce an hour;
Twenty four hours, a day;
And we all know that seven days
Shalt always comprise a week.
A week of despair may usher in
A lifetime of secluded darkness
Whilst a year of jocundity
May not forever guarantee
A paltry millisecond of indecision
May inadvertently alter a whole existence;
Hence, even precede a terrible fate
For everyone concerned.
Yet, we persistently live
Through the cycles of trials-and-errors
That don’t really promise anything.
Although, we insist and we hope
That mayhap, this instance
Shalt commence the coveted surprise.
Perchance, of love.
Or of opulence.
Or of tranquility.
Or of silence.
Whatever it is, we seek,
We rely on the multitudinous experiences
And sundry learnings
That crowd our erstwhile minds–
Imbibing the sunny disposition
That may still fabricate
A yearned-for truth of some kind.
We try and we try,
Even when we sense ourselves about to cry–
Even when all would seem too awry
And naught else is left inside.
We smile and we force ourselves to laugh;
Because, what else is there to do, anyhow?
That pervasive resilience
That speaks volumes about the human core–
The one that refutes defeat;
The one that demands holding on.
We’re driven, not only by our dreams,
But by the confidence of the ones we love.
Most times, it’s that belief that they have in us,
That propels us to move forward–
Even when the night’s whispers heed us
To sleep and to surrender ourselves
To the beguiling shadows of oblivion
And selfish bliss.
Those sixty seconds may generate a minute;
Those sixty minutes may provide an hour;
Though, that millisecond of cowardice
May signify utter damnation for all;
Thus, we endeavor to be extremely prudent–
Petrified by the probabilities
That may affect, not only ourselves,
But also the ones we so adore.