Why, how quickly time did aggress,
With life escaping in each exhalation,
Bedridden, I gaze into her mournful eyes
My bones, my body, once faithful, now aching,
Feel far too foreign, as though
They were not mine own.
Too far didst we irate wayfarers daringly venture,
Far too late, in these revered hissing storybooks,
Were we thoroughly told, facetiously disvalued
By the most cruel and callous gods you so reverently adored.
Had we been found just a wee bit earlier, ‘twould have easily been
Thine fantasy writ in solid fanes of exquisite blues and golds,
But, instead, here, upon these uncertainties do we brood,
Clucking our tongues in our evaluated commitments.
Wouldst time allow me to digress
Within the limited preciousness with thee,
Within these fictitiously disjointed reveries.