Isn't this but a paltry bit of honest thought,
That my poor soul will once be solemnly sought,
By those felic fluttering wings, fragile and fair,
Fully bearing the stench of my filthy canine air?
Was it not naive and far from prudence to confide
In souls forged of disparate mettles, who guide
Us through perils that only their hide can defy,
And give counsels the poor soul can hardly buy?
Was it not a folly reckoning that we'll be fully seen
And taken in by those, for whom we've kept keen
And diligent watch, but still hold presence dwarfish
In their spacious hearts that our banishment wish?
Knowing so that we haven't the licence to question,
Must we quit or mask ourselves in forced oblivion?

Comments
Post a Comment