It is a mighty Titan’s work to wrest The universe to his will, but still I do my best. My hubris knows No bounds to make it so that All my ducks are precisely in a row Before I'm ready to receive love. After all, it’s not as if any love I could, like pining Paris, myself wrest. Some unfussy fool, who I will row Back in my leaky boat to my still And secret, silent walled city. That Place which hardly anybody knows. And, truth be told, no oracle knows, With any certainty when I shall love Again. So, I embrace my impotence that Has, as if Medusa herself sought to wrest My agency, leaves me so stony still On such a glassy sea, I've no means to row. I mean, surely if I could seek to madly row Against the tide of life, who knows If I would be truly victorious still? Or would I simply drown in seeking love Like Leander? With no-one to wrest Me from the deep. And who’d want that? Thus, I have been slowly lured away. That Has been my curse. A long and languid row, Brought me to singing sirens. Wrest To their lifeless rocks, this poet knows I’ll not return. Not even a call from Love, Would have me brave my way back still. At least, that is what I tell myself still In my comfortable solitude. For until that Time where I have made it so that Love Is prepared to drown for me, I’ll not row Back out to sea. For Poseidon knows My conviction he could so easily wrest. Instead, alone I’ll stay, and still attempt to wrest The universe to my will. That sadly knows Love is lost, unless it is I who out to sea will row.
How Has It Come to Be This Way?
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How has it to come to be this way, I question in my waning years, A life amounts to such decay? Despite the toil I give the day, Lashed by all my desperate fears, H…
Your use of words amazes me! Wow! Pensive and full of emotion.
OH I LOVE IT!
It feels like a classic, something Walt Whitman wrote.