• P E R F E C T ! ! ! . . .

    (;)[o]<I=: - Pekela


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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

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