flickr-free-ic3d pan white


The fabric of self rests in your hands

On whose craft your livelihood depends:

The man whose firm grip does not wear off,

Whom neither hopes nor fears can bear off;

That man carries in his palm a foolish script,

Into which the manic heat of willpower has slid:

He only can be charged at the cost of release,

Unless his desires shall be treated as disease;

He hurries through life in white knuckled fashion,

Making the heavens snarl at such vain passion;

Consolement he makes his ultimate goal,

While shades of wisdom keep nagging at his soul;

Thus while earthly tensions beg to be unfold

He stays oblivous to love, he persists in his mold.


Alexome, Oktober 2005

1 fave
Taken on October 23, 2005