What is this thing I never saw that poked me from nowhere. I felt a pain that dripped insane and gave me quite a scare. I know it came from outside-in, and not from bones or brain. And yet it's not a break, a bruise, a lesion, or a sprain. Some demon breached a ghost portal, and stabbed me from hell's pit with an inferno-fired poker... oh wait, I'm fine. It quit.
Gather ye rose-buds while ye may, Old Time is still a-flying; And this same flower that smiles today Tomorrow will be dying. The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun, The higher he's a-getting, The sooner will his race be run, And nearer he's to setting. That age is best which is the first, When youth and blood are warmer; But being spent, the worse, and worst Times still succeed the former. Then be not coy, but use your time, And while ye may, go marry; For having lost but once your prime, You may forever tarry.
The pounding sound of rhythmic drums shatters stillness this eve. I know not whether snares are banged to celebrate or grieve. The pace isn't slow enough to guide a somber procession, nor does it race at the pace of jocular expression. It's a well-kept beat, approaching, that makes the windows shake, but seems suitable only for keeping me awake.
From atop an old stone rampart, one's head within the clouds, one expects to see an old oxcart through that foggy shroud. But down below, the modern day: buses, cafes, and cars. I turn my head the other way, and the world 's as it was: Back in the times when that fortress was besieged and battered, and nothing moved freely but for a flag -- singed and tattered. There's a certain romantic view of long-gone days of old, but I think I'll be heading down before I catch a cold.
Tell all the truth but tell it slant -- Success in Circuit lies Too bright for our infirm Delight The Truth's superb surprise As Lightning to the Children eased With explanation kind The Truth must dazzle gradually Or every man be blind --
I hear the rains accelerate From the lightest sprinkle. Soon the streets are aflood; mere sound Makes my fingers wrinkle. The rain continues to ratchet Up: faster & faster. 'Til it's maxed out at a speed that Spells certain disaster. How can it keep up this dire pace? What sponge this cloud must be To hold on high, up in the sky, The contents of a Sea. But, in time, the downshift begins Towards just drips & drops. No matter how boisterous the band, The song, it always stops.
The Ladybug of my childhood had polka-dots of black, adorning the split red shell that covered its wings and back. So, who erased this bug's black dots to make it less dice-like, making it a Lady in red? Said thief can take a hike. I had so many fine questions, but it just flew away. Maybe a bug somewhere out there has more spots coming its way.
There never was a Golden Age,
a time much better than right now.
But playing martyr 's all the rage:
to think our world the garbage scow --
whose stinking mass forever grows.
Lest you think that I'm saying these
are times of pure and sweet repose,
Please, let me put your mind at ease:
These times are best. These times are worst.
(To blatantly steal from Dickens.)
This twist is just how we are cursed
to shriek like that sky fall chicken.
A white-knuckled grip on the rail, though the ship is sinking. The brain insists one hold tightly; there's no mind for thinking. A samaritan pries at your fist, but it will not budge. In giving up, he feels guilty -- conscience jury and judge. You couldn't wedge just a single breath to crack a space for thought. A simple thing it is to let go, but look what fear has wrought. A quarter million tons now drags you to the cold, dark depths. Until the body's unthinking gasp of watery breath. The hand lets go, but still you sink trapped by your last mistake. The tragedy of a grasp reflex that you could not break.
I sit within an empty cave. It's empty, that's for sure. It's dark, so dark that nothing shines. What sound is that? A purr? I'm in this cave, and not alone, but with what I can't say. It's in the back where it's jet black -- a predator? Or prey? I'm walking now; I don't dare run. the ground is all cockeyed with stalagmites and stalactites. I grope, in need of guide. And feeling through Stygian space, I bust open my head. Warm blood, I feel, run down my face. I'm squeezed by rising dread. I hear a squeak, a mouse strolls through; then silence is restored. If only my mind were so rid of its outsized horrors.
Tiger Riding for Beginners 