On A Cusp Poem by Mathew Lewis

Amongst the kind of truth
That is always inside lies,
Beyond the sunken sense of self
Past the thing that words describe
Is a burning yearning galaxy;
A net cast by the eye,
Past love, hope, loss and tragedy
And the boundaries of time.
Past our quid-pro-quo-selection,
Past our skitter-skatter minds,
Above our water mark perceptions,
Beyond the pasts we leave behind:
The indescribable passion
Of a real chance at time;
Something like a two-year-old
Who dreams in perfect rhyme.
Like innocent adolescence,
Or like virgin-loss one night:
The first of all experience
Is what is never left behind.
A trend that never fails
Is how we choose to bait our lines;
And in the casting of those hooks,
A hope to catch the future’s child.
And the doing so forms a cycle
As ubiquitous as time,
As inescapable as winter,
As recognisable as life.

So tomorrow’s dawn is sober,
And tomorrow’s mind is mine,
Tomorrow is a sanctum,
Next to which the present cries.