Submissions by ThomasKrist

Within this state of profound muse,
Disquieted by ceaseless voice;
I hear my shuffling wayward from pews,
As this is reason’s choice.
Ite missa est!

We, instinct's marionette?
These spider-strings dare we cut?
And escape to what?
Ah, again Shakespeare's rub!

So we, our own pallbearers...
Carry the weight...
Of our own embellished corpse;
Stumbling ever graveward!

Be there some escape,
B'hind pyrites-golden
Of olden drape?
Future glory or atrocity...
In de Grey's longevity escape velocity?

But something more than me discerns!
For how now the juxtaposition turns.
For how the self-disgust and disdain;
If of that dead weight I am the same?

Ah,...