At the Centre of the World

O, ‘what a piece of work is man!’
Reverberating throughout the empty hall
of the crumbling cathedral, stand
the inky shadows of a godforsaken ball.

Humans are fascinating, truly,
though he modestly walks among them all;
at times than nature still more unruly,
at times like the servants of her masterful call.

To whom and where do their rivers owe,
when the moonlight is colder than the drifting stone?
Why do they deny what they knowingly know?
Upon their innocence the bloody fields have grown.

O, what mysteries this world hides!
May one day he caress her undraped form?
Of valleys and mountains he politely scribes,
yet still the heart is a perplexing storm.

Do they the tears of cassis desire?
Why do we from our loves resign?
When all things must one day expire,
by fate must parting with embrace entwine.

Are you my friends the ghosts of my mind?
How should I know, I’m at the centre of the world.
Never shall we our own silhouettes find,
we’re all at the centre of this uncaring world.

Published in: on 15/04/2018 at 1:38 AM  Leave a Comment  

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