I write because my time is limited and my imagination is not.
There will come a time when you feel as though You have needed a drink For years →→→ And all of the small, familiar fonts of bliss
By D. J. Reddall2 years ago in Poets
After the plague, we hoped things would return to normal Before pestilence rolled in, they had at least seemed that way Counting our dead, we were desolate but secretly smug, for the human animal
After millennia, I believe you abide Beautiful, enigmatic; it is inspiration that you provide Consoling, cajoling, filling frail, mortal vessels; of ideas are you the mothers
The notion of time travel seems most odd An exotic, even absurd idea; It must take a genius or a god To understand it and win latria
Shall I compare thee to a winter’s night? Thou art more ugly and less temperate; Lethal to all things is frost’s bitter blight
My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the Sun Microsystems simulacra of eyes She was made to supply synthetic fun To pretend to have lips, likes, cries and thighs
I Plagues claim all sorts of victims, large and small Paupers, princes, places, things--ideas One such victim, to the surprise of all
Hanging with monsters Does not make you a monster… But how’s your judgment?
Sing something, O ingenious AI Of heroes, grudgingly returned to work Having repressed their wish simply to die With bland feasts, games, perhaps a firework
I Beware the equation of novelty and goodness The bubonic plague had a birthday Aliteracy, which describes a person who can read but does not
Eternal content in a fresh disguise Thanatos, Eros, all of those ageless whys A novel idea clothed in an old surprise
From every display of ugly contempt From a symphony of snickered insults From an arcade of rolling eyes, attempt Alchemically to harvest sweet results
