Archive
03/24/11 - (1)
Bother
Why must surly, quixotic, arrogant time, With far less reason than expendable rhyme, Leave us in its dusty detritus, Freezing, weeping icy black tears, Fearing life's wrenching end, As it grasps whatever's left of our essence, Casts it into silence's sequestration, To vanish like the luster on sunset's tarnishing star?
If time could answer, would it bother? And if it did, would we bother to listen, In our surly, quixotic arrogance?
03/24/11 - (1)
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