Oblivious Short Stories

It is as if the wind gave a message a shove
Of lucky days close to its brim,
My blood in a rush, I think I'm in love
- Of whom? – Oh, of every breathe, of every whim

I wished that everything in this heaven and on this earth,
Lie stretched near my heart like a maiden’s mirth.

Nor young or old
Warm or cold
Hardened and bold
Goes winning in a heroic strive
Against life in stoic thrive

So solemnly sad in a solid cove
In the bed of our soothed death
We call for the curdling candid love
In dread of our closing breath