we listen fearfully for the great blast
there's nothing left for us to think or say
the shore must drown beneath the rising spray
into deep peril we have all been cast
finding we have no choices at the last
we give our answers and we take our pay
accepting this as the end of the play
our glory now lies wholly in the past
the remnant will now go entirely mad
there is no silence left here for relief
nor will we honour truth and sense define
but yet there may be reasons to be glad
and turn away one moment from great grief
while looking eastward for a hopeful sign
Odd ravings, comments, and other wastes of time. Some are in plain prose, yet others are in rhyme.
02 November 2007
a storm approaches
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