Friday, August 22, 2014


Some certain hell hung, ready to strike
At enemies uncertain who would come if only
I would call them forth, but I had no will
To make or mar the resting day
Green undying in my hand.

Prince of Nothing, your subjects grow impenitent
The dead bawd in the market hawks her wares
The shards stir in the basket, planning
Revenge against the potter.


If the fountain howls what care I?
Or  if the water in the bowl trembles
And mirrors forth things unhappening
Why should my heart uneasy grow?
Of Lethe water I’ve not drunk
By the Styx I have sworn no oath;
There is a sixth river some say
And to it will I give answer.

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