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Thursday, June 05, 2008

Sonnet CLVII

So much to do, so little precious time.
Is this not what the modern mantra is?
Inciting what we would have done from lists
of schedules and future worried signs.

Alas, this stress is what we have in life.
When everything’s so fast, there’s nothing missed,
but everything’s a mess and thus, amiss.
What’s time but apprehension’s law sublimed?

Alas, I bite my tongue and work away,
for in the past, archaic peoples died
with toil in their blood and heated souls,
but now my only enemy each day
is time and where to fit the parts of life
into this widening and gaping whole.

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A word is dead
When it is said,
Some say.

I say it just
Begins to live
That day.

- Emily Dickinson

Thanks, Wordle!