Sunday morning coming down

the centuries roll around the ages end
all things return to what they were before
and those who are to come know that we send
our hopes to them as once did those of yore

the problem is our language does not have
in all its rhymes and all its little tropes
the means by which we learn both how to save
our selves and how to guard our little hopes

we shape our minds into the forms of time
we want our vaguest wishes to come true
we let the rules be moulded by the rhyme
and act before we have the time to rue

we are not sure but know that we must dare
be who we are before we die from fear