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choo choo next stop.....perdition (no, not really...no-one believes this Stygian opacity) 1. look how Time doth ravage thee look what it did to thy visage in smithereens, lies youth it so artfully takes away what is held so dear rivers and streams valleys and hills arching to ecstatic heights plunging to abysmal lows into the ravine of chance stirred by the spoon of Time slowly around the cauldron brews the self-same mixture then poured into chasms of forgetfulness using the eternal sledgehammer it smashes the foundation of thought grinds the nutmeg of speed pulps the fruit of mentality slows the pulse of sensation and pardons none. 2. what was once sensuous and voluptuous lips now are merely two dry slits on your face once stared-into eyeballs, now glass over vitreous cataracts steadily grow, weed-like toned into lithe elastic bands now stretch away into forever, a pale platform to walk on life's morn is encompassed by years' slanting clouded and bedimmed by mists of age butterfly's existence outweighs a man's by mere night-veiled windowpane of true sight draw the curtains; close the shutters; screen the eyes the time has come to shed all blinkers and face the sun. 3. crimp sag limp drag mud cracks down a dipping dale scalding pain sears sore half-foot yes, time is but a disease ravaging all without fear or favour sunken eyes slower reflexes tardier mind scraggly body hides not condescends not forgets not the glimmer of .... a time of ... 4. cathedral invites the walker in cool and calm recesses sit silent wait.... then they walk in, carrying one who had but a lucky half-score lot clear soprano note becomes a rudderless bleat announcing the folly of stifling ego now shorn of burning frost of circuitous fervour beams of mercy cast a final look-see jump the barriers of time to carry thee off. pipe organ-stops are pulled out (art thee ready?  platform number 5) S T,  9 May 2013
0
May 9, 2013
May 9, 2013 at 9:24 AM UTC
time is but a disease
choo choo next stop.....perdition (no, not really...no-one believes this Stygian opacity) 1. look how Time doth ravage thee look what it did to thy visage in smithereens, lies youth it so artfully takes away what is held so dear rivers and streams valleys and hills arching to ecstatic heights plunging to abysmal lows into the ravine of chance stirred by the spoon of Time slowly around the cauldron brews the self-same mixture then poured into chasms of forgetfulness using the eternal sledgehammer it smashes the foundation of thought grinds the nutmeg of speed pulps the fruit of mentality slows the pulse of sensation and pardons none. 2. what was once sensuous and voluptuous lips now are merely two dry slits on your face once stared-into eyeballs, now glass over vitreous cataracts steadily grow, weed-like toned into lithe elastic bands now stretch away into forever, a pale platform to walk on life's morn is encompassed by years' slanting clouded and bedimmed by mists of age butterfly's existence outweighs a man's by mere night-veiled windowpane of true sight draw the curtains; close the shutters; screen the eyes the time has come to shed all blinkers and face the sun. 3. crimp sag limp drag mud cracks down a dipping dale scalding pain sears sore half-foot yes, time is but a disease ravaging all without fear or favour sunken eyes slower reflexes tardier mind scraggly body hides not condescends not forgets not the glimmer of .... a time of ... 4. cathedral invites the walker in cool and calm recesses sit silent wait.... then they walk in, carrying one who had but a lucky half-score lot clear soprano note becomes a rudderless bleat announcing the folly of stifling ego now shorn of burning frost of circuitous fervour beams of mercy cast a final look-see jump the barriers of time to carry thee off. pipe organ-stops are pulled out (art thee ready?  platform number 5) S T,  9 May 2013
How age doth touch the brow of one and all. Looking at pictures of and being inspired by the writing of esteemed Anglo-American writer W. H. Auden (born in 1907, York, UK - died in 1973, Vienna). Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone, Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone, Silence the pianos and with muffled drum Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come. Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead, Put crêpe bows round the white necks of the public     doves, Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves. He was my North, my South, my East and West, My working week and my Sunday rest, My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song; I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong. The stars are not wanted now: put out every one; Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun; Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood. For nothing now can ever come to any good.
st64
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st64
May 9, 2013
May 9, 2013 at 9:24 AM UTC
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