The frozen minds of corpses turned to dust
Will mock me from the shelf at evening time;
As shiny new ambition turns to rust,
I’ll be amused with tempo, music, rhyme.
My temple stands unused, and no bells chime
Their welcome appeals for the pilgrim’s ear
That yearns to hear refrains above the grime
Of mankind’s living pains and grimmest fear.
I grimace, but disdain for one more year
To finish what it is so plain I must,
Instead of skimming surfaces, a crime
That most commit while doing their time here.
Convicted of conflicting thoughts, I just
Can’t decide whether to lie down, or climb.
Wed 6 June 2007
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