Friday, June 17, 2011
The sorrows forming on this force were still,
Yet you are gaining pride everyday,
To make yet more of sadness and anyway,
Like suns and stars of this lone world so ill.
My liver and dessert is all freewill,
In this one herb is sweetness this birthday,
As if the roles of life a carriageway,
As if we stay on then we shall fulfil.
My job is certainly the same old job,
It strikes out at sin and makes me old;
In fact, the sorrow still betrays many.
I seek the sorry matter by doorknob,
Departing from the room someone blindfold,
Relaxing out, as if with antennae.