Wednesday, 27 June 2007
Beyond cure, I am irrational to past care,
envelopes of tomes hide heart's history.
Concocting negligible style every where
providing with tales of untold misery
I stay reproached, fixated to my content.
in philosophical abysm, I hurl all care,
no real excuses for all that I truly resent-
lone moments have crinkles engraved there.
Has nature too joined in to distress me-
notably uncaring every thing that grows
from those festers of agony that no can see;
nevertheless insisting we must not be foes.
Is it viable to put up with it that way-
so all thrive, I am yet again cast away?