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I have grown accustomed to your face.
I need to know if you feel the same.
There is no time to dream about,
when Life is short and uncertain.
Should I tell you how I feel?
Is this the time to swallow hard,
keeping emotions within your shell,
by staying resolved and alone?
Never to share, my own delight
or talk with you, until the Dawn.
We will never, until time is gone
and memories have faded; gone away.

The stench of Death,
fills the room.
A smell which overrides
the gloom,
much like a Rose which
will no longer bloom.
Petals gone, on the ground,
too early and too soon.

If you must hate me
because of my color of skin,
why can't you love me
for my heart within?

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream, and not make dreams your master;
If you can think, and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two imposters just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools;

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings, nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And, which is more, you'll be a Man, my son!

Joseph Rudyard Kipling (1865 – 1936) English journalist, short-story writer, poet, and novelist. He was born in India, which inspired much of his work. His works of fiction include  "The Man Who Would be King" and the "Jungle Book"/ His Poems include "Mandalay", "The Gods of the Copybook Headings", "Gunga Din"and "If...."

Years ago, when light was gray;
Before the dawn of a coming day.
I arose early to watch the Moon,
traverse the Sky, like a Loon.
An object with a shape of long
forgotten material, lay among
the branches of a Maple tree,
awaiting the love, escaping me.
Far away from the lonely abode,
upon Death's horse, he rode.

A sound,
a noise,
a smell
of decay,
as our
earthly body's
life ebbs,
from our soul
and will
be what,
becomes now,
in our
own dismay.

The far side of heaven
is where I hope she will be,
standing by the Pearly Gates,
waiting there for me.
I hope she will wait there,
in case I'm running late,
for I may not be inside,
but outside the Pearly Gates.

The Colt was born,
in blazing Sun.
His legs all gangly,
wobbling as he
tried to run.
Always a joy,
with much delight,
to see a newborn
take steps; a new flight.

Life is like a sheep's,
lost deep in the herd.
Deep in the crowd,
a voice won't be heard.
Speak out now, for you must,
as the time will pass by
and our thoughts will be dust.

The Midnight bells
rang loudly then.
It was when it all began.
The Moon disappeared
behind a cloud,
as the Midnight bells,
kept ringing, loud.
Bright the lights; Heaven
did shine,
as we heard the
peasant scream.
Where are you , My Lord?
Why have you forgotten
us, here, in this place?
Now we know and must face
our shortened life's new embrace.

Words to paper.
Ink from pen,
my writing process,
came back again.
Words, some kind,
some with ease,
can be filthy
covered with slease.
Why write those,
when you please?
So provocative,
they will tease,
a thought, what
this mind sees.
The words vanish
with a Spring breeze.

I awake from a stupor.
I'm down on the ground,
where I am surrounded by people,
who I see, but there is no sound.
What has happened to me?
A question, I would ask,
except there are few words.
which come with my gasp.
I am alone but then I'm not,
for here is what I see,
propped up against the trunk
of a dying, old tree.