British Library Reflections Poem by Jonathan ROBIN

Take time from Time for line from line grows not,
Hell’s weight awaits, the creeping Reaper snaps
Entwinèd threads. Sped, dead men need no maps -
Closed is hope’s door, uncounted beaded knot.
On other subjects dwell, for, soon forgot,
Man’s transient triumphs wither. Death entraps.
Most stillborn live, their passing seen as lapse
Of taste or circumstance ‘twixt grave and cot.
Now, in the Present, find fresh wings, and spot
Great future from above, avoid collapse.
Remember Lethe’s unplumbed depths perhaps
Answer the ‘why? ’ – one’s ‘I’ is passing dot.
Ventures may be gained, ignore the night,
Enjoy existence, enter into light…