A blighted tome lies hidden -- He who seeks
Enlightenment, or yet may on a whim
Pursue to find the secret that it keeps,
Be warned that there upon it’s vellum skin,
In silvered lines and swirls, the epitaph
And reckoned days of mortals; those once heard,
Now seen, or yet to feel; each trodden path
Foreshadowed, from the womb unto interred --
Would knowing of your winter cull the woe
Of knowing that your summer is too short?
Would spring be wasted waiting on the snow,
And autumn shade diminish in your thought?
        Before you seek, be sure you wish to find,
        For secrets learned may yet torment your mind.