Jonathan ROBIN (22 September / London)
This Lonely Self
The search for sense amidst life’s solitude
Has topsy-turvy turned beliefs for years.
Is happiness goal sought, or flight from fears,
Sensed as years’ tears, insensitive, intrude?
Life jokes at our expense, all feel pursued
Or haunted by time passed where chimes’ arrears
No substitute may pay when Death appears.
Experience must always be renewed.
Links into future tense we seem when viewed,
Yet each bud’s snipped by Time’s sharp scissor shears.
Soon all returns to naught. Night swiftly smears
Experiments ephemeral yet crude.
Let who would trace indelible here ink
For second thoughts upon life’s sonnet think.
(12 August 1990 revised 21 September 2008)
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