A certain sort of death must

Follow,

For all who would avail

of

Tomorrow.

 

Of flesh, does this death speak?

Not of a sort to man, familiar, of defeat,

but

Rather,

of man at his best:

When he turns, on sore knees, to the Lord,

And in fire, leaves fervent, behind,

all the

Rest.

 

Perfidy, in the form of a mask’s

crayon hue,

where childhood songs scraped colors

of pictures through:

the holes, in faces,

where Hearts so blew

winds tainted, and scorned,

by angels into

Heaven’s blaring horns!

 

So was the turn, between innocence and

Age,

when all we left behind was

charming, and sage!

So there, we grew,

and wrote ourselves the page,

where bickering tongues brew

such gossip, and rage!

 

What were these sins,

that for moment’s rush, we sought

all that grieves, and contends,

with all things Sublime, distraught?

 

Is it enough to speak of fools,

Or from something deeper, within,

Protrudes?

What is it, Today, that iniquitous, lewd,

makes souls, eternal, so shameless intrude

 

upon

Tomorrow,

 

which one sees, when to himself true,

what beckons the childlike, immaculate, through

the mores, and the sighs, of

adult Things, too?

 

of these Things, have you heard?

They sing, and they dance, and again renew

such infant chuckles, when, baptized, learn

what in struggle, and heart, we now, in lieu

of animus, rancor, newly discern!

 

Soaring, the Heart, may it have you a dance?

May its hand, romantic, clasp tender cheeks,

whose wrinkles, through sin, knew evil’s sharp lance,

but which now revive, as in toddlers’ weeks?

 

This is what it means, to sing in contempt

of all a man darkens, when to Hell he is sent:

when older he grows, leaves the Heart unkempt

against all sweet doves, of whom ought never relent

Time’s valorous warriors: 

or Us, 

here meant?

 

See, as they fly, and land without claws,

so careful, meticulous, in spiritual pause,

For the Spirit, you know, sings ceaseless Lauds

of spirits, in courage, who righteously applaud:

 

All that remains, what Good, man so driven sows

what only, from Above, sets chaos in rows!

Move, though he may, through bricks and roads,

man graceless, dismayed, cannot stay sin’s blows!

 

Until

Tomorrow

he seeks to

Change his ways,

and the Spirit agrees

to give more days

to a soul, not in merit,

but a pure heart yearns

to return, to dear Eden,

as repentance burns!

 

This is the singing,

that returns what a child

knew natural, unforced,

before confused, ran wild!

 

Shake, though it may, your head to and fro,

thinking this prison may never implode,

but soon, one sees, what ease of a load

is to weep, and to shed, what the Heart in truth loathes:

 

this foolish design

of avoiding

Tomorrow.

 

this aimless rhyme

of a needless

Sorrow.

_________________

 

R.V. Smith: “Tomorrow”, 05-19-25

 

© 2025 by Ryan Vincent Smith