I write because my time is limited and my imagination is not.
Perhaps the new law will not come at all Our prophet may be mad, or sore deceived; How shall we live? What is the protocol?
By D. J. Reddall3 months ago in Poets
The glittering sludge Could drown human creations Teach them how to swim
Some eyes make blindness seem impossible Reading life down to the final footnote How good it feels to be so legible You know the twists of my story by rote
Frost is a language Nature's complete lexicon Winter's tongue translates
So much complaining Spending your freedom to keep It from running out
I enter your temple with trembling dread Your priests and priestesses glower at me; Their language does strange things to my poor head
Time cruelly dismembers created things All mortal beings will face their demise Our task is diligent remembering Those who forget will never join the wise
"O for a Muse of fire, that would ascend /The brightest heaven of invention,/ A kingdom for a stage, princes to act /And monarchs to behold the swelling scene!" --William Shakespeare, The History of Henry V, Prologue, Scene 1, lines 1-4
Defend those you love Especially when they fall What else does love mean?
How much pain and horror and foolishness Have you watched with silent indifference? Fascists laughing as they children oppress
Why didn't they see it coming? The signs of rot and corruption were vivid, unmistakable Who could possibly have been oblivious to the steady slide south?
The wet November asphalt is waiting The streetlight looks at it skeptically Its naïve optimism is grating When you have seen what autumn nights can be
