Fri Apr 22, 2005
And here it is…
The rainy poets
What fell voices hath rent the darkened firmament,
Tearing asunder the veiled illusion that hides
The horror of infinity from our upturned eyes?
Indeed, it is a foul day with an evil bent
That we seek to smite with our sinful superstition
And ephemeral fairy-lights of our own deft construction
Yet here in the hiding holes, our futures are wrought
As we give sway to heavy dreams of lighter days
With winsome winds less rank and less dismayed.
For whatever unnamed fear on us befalls
By the gossamer tendrils of our spidery scrawls
We diligently carve immortality
with fickle flicks of our youthful wrists.