Sunday, June 16, 2013

POEM

The mortal flame could conflagarate
While the soul perishes within
The pain of existence never abate
And a crisis of being therein.

The words may fail in the task
In linking thought to act to deed
And the self may never bask
Nor to happiness give heed.

Yet, in the inertia of stasis
A purloined moment of hope beckon
Becoming, a lanolin prophylaxis
And makes life a force to reckon

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