The Moments Lost (Or Thru Blackening Woods; -) Poem by Peter S. Quinn

The time is running thru blackening woods
These unbearable flights to the moments lost
To cobblestones sometimes are mossed
All their reminiscences in their lost hoods
The reflections like none nourishing burn
And giving no longing from inside here
Only to be for future – or not there
Each in their way or never ending turn

Infliction array to the nowhere now
Or be going through intervals like shadows
And later perhaps be stored and kept absent
The moments that come in their lowness vow
And nowhere inside them freshness breeze blows
For each of their giving is in its relent