Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right, Because their words had forked no lightning they Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight, And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way, Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height, Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray. Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
The hardy Himalayan nettle stings.
It felt like punching piles of jellyfish.
The slightest brush feels like a snapped bowstring.
But the balm of time bowstrings quickly bring.
The nettle's cure proved far more standoffish.
The hardy Himalayan nettle stings.
Two days on, the nettle still sent its ping.
My hand numb like I'd fondled Fugu fish.
That slightest brush felt like a snapped bowstring.
I put my useless limb in a web sling.
Not really, but it did hurt fiercely-ish.
That hardy Himalayan nettle stings.
Oh! of such agony Divas do sing.
Not really, but it was unpleasant-ish.
The slightest brush felt like a snapped bowstring.
Stabbed by roadside nettle in Darjeeling
is a fate upon no one I would wish.
The hardy Himalayan nettle stings.
The slightest brush feels like a snapped bowstring.
The waves are churned to foam.
The sight mesmerizes.
My mind is miles from home.
My seated self does roam --
chaos that surprises,
like waves are churned to foam.
Like one w/ Capgras Syndrome,
hustler mistrust arises.
My mind 's wary of home.
I focus on the chrome,
but my ear recognizes
the waves that churn to foam.
I've vagabond chromosomes,
but still the thought chastises:
"Your mind is miles from home!"
I'm sitting all alone,
and my mind surmises:
Like waves churned to foam,
your mind 's so far from home.
There’s something in the cave that one can’t know.
It’s scary, but still the mystery becomes
a force that pulls one like an undertow.
One first looks about for a rock to throw
to see if one can loosen the beast’s tongue.
There’s something in that cave that one can’t know.
One baits the beast by moving to-and-fro —
an imagined sound triggers heart’s PUM! PUM!
A force; it pulls one like an undertow.
At the cave’s mouth there lands a big, black crow,
and now one ‘s sure the cave’s depth must be plumbed.
There’s something in the cave that one can’t know.
Then one sees a red eye begin to glow —
the product of a mind that’s overrun
by forces that pull it like an undertow.
Uh-oh, your mind ‘s the cave, that much I know,
and I hear nothing but a steady hum.
There’s nothing in the cave that we can’t know —
just fear that pulls one like an undertow.
Tiger Riding for Beginners 