in the morning we sing our songs on memories all but past and gone, but for the
pain they bring to every thought that clouds itself by yearning; singing
for some deadly calm of mind, but for a thorn and whims of pride.
goodness, mine! with clutching hand to chest we heave in darkest depth,
and breath bereft for what we breathe: alas, if we could but stop to sigh!
o holy tragic comedy, o torturous progression of godly time!
unfurl yourself complete to end: o noble, sweetly shredded edge, your
upward curl of indifference hand:
the centre struggles, yet, to hold
in time to crush this noisome soul
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