Dieing thrice,
Quadrice,
Qintice,
An agony of perpetual death.
Sitting here writing,
And plundering time,
Sinking in quick sand,
And burning in lime.
Futile yet docile my efforts now seem,
Working out futures,
In reem after reem.
For joy 'tis but fleeting,
And sorrow, sans weeping,
Lives on like a flame,
Still flickers, still glows.
But the passion for joy,
This drug of the sences,
A hope for some wonder,
Some fun and some life,
Keeps winning, keeps grinning,
With rapier it fences,
It fends back the pain,
And the sorrow and strife.
2006-12-23
13:11:30
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14 answers
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asked by
flaminious
1
in
Books & Authors