The Ever-Lasting Burden Of Truth

[HARDCORE]

6-19-2022

(Dreary – But Politically Deep Thought)….

“Excuse my poetic license, but only within its rhetoric, and shrouded within my own mindless lair, behold that blanket of soil, that we all must eventually wear!” (hrt-6/19/2022)

“And call me a fool, if ye must, but never attempt to erode away what is left of my fading mind, and this, into a decay of mortal rust? And although we all claim to have a conscience, often down ‘Perdition’s Tubes’ does it erode, and as it trickles away like the falling rain, all of our knowledge does it drain!” So once again – “Do Tell Me More”, as ye exit beyond life’s final door! No more to dream, no more to plan, as life drifts by - like so much blowing sand!

And like all of our peers (and a few of our false friends as well), maybe we are but a phenomenal waste of time, as we erode away within our own (often) over-powering ‘Hell!’
“And if life is naught but a fleeting dream, and as we wander at will within this scheme – we will all eventually arrive at that final curtain call, then into oblivion we all must fall?”
And Always Remember This: “Far too many of us” have oozed naught but grief and pain throughout our entire lifetimes – but until we can dream no more of life so sweat, we will, most assuredly, continue to stumble along - amidst our own meandering, greedy and slothful ways, until (Along With) our own immortal souls, we too may someday have to answer to -

“The Eternal And Totally Magnificent Pied-Piper of Time and of Celestial Justice Itself!?”
‘So Move Thee Over - Mr. Poe!’

Hardcore

“AND HAPPY FATHER’S DAY – TO Y’ALL!!”

[Boats]

The Sleeper
By: Edgar Allan Poe - 1809-1849
Re: https://poets.org/poem/sleeper

At midnight in the month of June,
I stand beneath the mystic moon.
An opiate vapour, dewy, dim,
Exhales from out her golden rim,
And, softly dripping, drop by drop,
Upon the quiet mountain top.
Steals drowsily and musically
Into the univeral valley.
The rosemary nods upon the grave;
The lily lolls upon the wave;
Wrapping the fog about its breast,
The ruin moulders into rest;
Looking like Lethe, see! the lake
A conscious slumber seems to take,
And would not, for the world, awake.
All Beauty sleeps!—and lo! where lies
(Her easement open to the skies)
Irene, with her Destinies!

Oh, lady bright! can it be right—
This window open to the night?
The wanton airs, from the tree-top,
Laughingly through the lattice drop—
The bodiless airs, a wizard rout,
Flit through thy chamber in and out,
And wave the curtain canopy
So fitfully—so fearfully—
Above the closed and fringed lid
‘Neath which thy slumb’ring sould lies hid,
That o’er the floor and down the wall,
Like ghosts the shadows rise and fall!
Oh, lady dear, hast thous no fear?
Why and what art thou dreaming here?
Sure thou art come p’er far-off seas,
A wonder to these garden trees!
Strange is thy pallor! strange thy dress!
Strange, above all, thy length of tress,
And this all solemn silentness!

The lady sleeps! Oh, may her sleep,
Which is enduring, so be deep!
Heaven have her in its sacred keep!
This chamber changed for one more holy,
This bed for one more melancholy,
I pray to God that she may lie
Forever with unopened eye,
While the dim sheeted ghosts go by!

My love, she sleeps! Oh, may her sleep,
As it is lasting, so be deep!
Soft may the worms about her creep!
Far in the forest, dim and old,
For her may some tall vault unfold—
Some vault that oft hath flung its black
And winged pannels fluttering back,
Triumphant, o’er the crested palls,
Of her grand family funerals—
Some sepulchre, remote, alone,
Against whose portal she hath thrown,
In childhood, many an idle stone—
Some tomb fromout whose sounding door
She ne’er shall force an echo more,
Thrilling to think, poor child of sin!
It was the dead who groaned within.

Photo of Edger: https://api.poets.org/sites/default/...?itok=G2PwmTQe
Born in 1809, Edgar Allan Poe had a profound impact on American and
international literature as an editor, poet, and critic.
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Personal note: He's creepy! To dwell upon one's ending is often times disturbing.
Whereas other's may fantazie a more pleasant passing to look forward to?
To wake up - in hell - or heaven (if they really exist) - or to just become part of
the ground leaves one to wonder - what becomes of the soul - whereas the body
goes back into the earth.
-
I do not fear dying - its what I leave behind (such as my off-spring), and how they
will carry on until their end of time. But to no avail - we will all await the mystery
of death - or is it just a cycle of life - rather than a transition to what only God
knows?
-