poetry = nonsense
nonsense = meaninglessness
meaninglessness = void
void = nothingness
nothingness = spirit

It was towards the end of our lives that we met again. He, once partner and friend and I, remembered the pain. 'Tis curious the Norns should wend us together anew. A whim to entertain perhaps, a thing I cannot comprehend, of reasons and whyfors divine and arcane. To my surprise I spat in his face. Little did I expect whilom resentments I should so harbour and still embrace of sour ventures and failed experiments. A poison long in the heart kept can leap for vespertine rendezvous. Awakened in haste and having long slept, the sting is quick and bitter true. Happy is the man whose fangs at life's end can surely discharge the venom of erstwhile pangs for such is deliverance writ large. The art of letting go is as shrouded as the gates to heaven are guarded. [30 IV 04]
Copyright © 2011 Erick Calder
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