Wednesday, September 14, 2016
Mixed into life with chance, but lacking anything not yet bittersweet
I take my coffee, swirled with intermingled energy,
I forget my headache, my whelm of whelping concerns,
Headache, thoughts, any name you wish,
I take my coffee, my tongue, it burns,
And with it, my luck squeals and screams.
Memento Mori... The call of the grave.
And the Grim stalks closer with the passing of every day.
I toss another coin, perhaps I'll lose my of sudden closer tail,
For the world has turned, and again, the day is made anew,
With new thoughts to penetrate from another exterior world.
Frozen, like a character stuck forever in a horror scene,
But my fears are simpler, nuanced, more sophisticated,
Not but opaque, to any but me, though shallow as the Bering sea.
My terrors, too latent, profound to glimpse,
Except in my slight expression, fears a camera obscura would all but misread.
And in it, despair, a seed.
And in it, despair, none but me can read,
Even if they understood the foreign type I find an engrossing read,
Luck, libations and deeds.
Respice post te. Hominem te memento.
Hominem te memento.
Yet, my face, it would not display my thoughts, tedious silky weave.
I add a little milk, and sip my coffee, before time takes its potency.
With savage purity, and nothing sweet, it gradually invigorates me.
And in a game of toss and woe, life,
The background, and the grave, they always win.
I take my coffee, and read a little,
In a tongue, as burnt and unsophisticated as what I read,
And pretend I'll yet have good luck, good fortune,
Not the comeuppance due all who are, for a time, alive.
And I will out of bitterness, for a future,
A path to impede, for even a second, or a lifetime,
Memento Mori... The call of the sombre grave.