Legacy is the fickle mistress
of peasants, artists, kings;
She grants her favor to many a man,
though for the strangest things:
Toppling thrones, or baking pies,
or the committing of great atrocities;
For dying well, or saving lives,
or the attaining of certain velocities.
Is anything as peaceful
as the sleeping of a cat?
Whose mind is not preoccupied
with the squeaking of a rat?
Death: the final arbiter
Who judges every man;
Whose robe is black and bones are white,
With a gavel in his hand;
Who keeps a glass for every soul,
And counts the grains of sand.
All will come to meet him,
Some may even greet him;
But once he’s met he’s met indeed,
And that you’d best believe.
One night I found myself, in the waters of mirror lake;
Caught up in reflection, without sound or move to make.
The surface still and quiet, the world a pane of glass;
Frozen in the moment, no time could ever pass.
Such a lucent clarity could never be described;
A beauty that, once broken, could never be revived.
I knew that at the lightest touch, a tremor of the hand;
The whole of it would shatter, the glass would turn to sand.
Curse my frail humanity, I willed my hand to stay;
But the mirror turned to dust, the image blew away.
The world is a mean and broken place,
Rife with pain and suffering;
Under the black and badness, though,
Something still shines through;
The light of beauty and peace is found,
In the dawning of every day;
Nothing can ever truly conceal,
How wonderfully the world was made;
Impossibly complex, an infinite cosmos,
Made for a definite purpose.
Music swells and fills the air,
With melody pure, crystalline fair;
Catches the eddies all around;
Fills the world with a beautiful sound.
The Paperwyte is a harmless beaste,
With eyes and ears of ledd;
He runs abowt the tabletop,
On the papers laise his hedd.