I write because my time is limited and my imagination is not.
“Then I looked on all my works that mine hands had wrought, and on the travail that I had labored to do: and behold, all is vanity and vexation of the spirit: and there is no profit under the sun.” --The Book of Ecclesiastes, 2:11
By D. J. Reddall2 years ago in Poets
You will have choices They will not be infinite Recognize the last
The naïve observer will mistake this For a scene of diabolical crime But this is not a cruel bite; a kiss Would better characterize this strange time
We spend the present Living uncomfortably With what the past costs
Perspectival contingency, you see Finds an entire world in one brief word Or in a coffee cup, a roiling sea Point-of-view shapes and defines the world
Passing time must be History’s greatest and most Discreet assassin
Those who do you wrong Provide you with raw material For splendid stories
The afternoons are fly-buzz drowsy now The fans ignore us and, bored, turn away; To lift this leaden heat, we know not how
How proximal we are to this old scene Though our page in the book of time seems new Still do we brook abuses most obscene
When I am told that The self is just a fiction I wonder who spoke
“I used to be Snow White, but I drifted.” -- Mae West The quest for purity is folly pure We are born wailing in blood and feces
Know your enemy Understand everything Reveal the mirror
