Nostalgia For The Present Poem by Noah Smits

Joy comes in bursts like the ice in a cup
as it slowly tilts downward, encasing the face,
and the rattling laughter gives praise to the grace
that permits elation to rise on up.

Forces that cast aside thought and reflection
bid meekness its parting, put focus's hold
on the present, and like bloated dragons hoard gold,
to each moment's end cast all attention.

But when the pleasure subsides in the night
that devours our brevity, soaking with ink
made of dark, gloomy truth, we'll then pause and we'll think
how our joy decays—how hollow our plight!

High am I writing this, on life's pure bliss,
at present unyielding as years gone and ancient.
Why should I stand by? Why should I be patient
when each second's joy threatens of being missed!