Ozymandias and the Tudor-Man"It is the dose that makes a poison." -Paracelsus
Ten thousand years some think the Sphinx,
Weathered by water, older than Egypt.
And now on Beale Street I smell the smoke
of neon pyramids
And hopeless dreams
Of monuments left for wasted lives.
And all our yesterdays have lighted...
This is no tragedy, no Scottish play -
It is a farce of lifeless living
Stale french-fry taste
And greasy touch
Amidst the molding banquet of this age.
Too much kindness, saccharin's taste,
The poison of too many smiles and miles -
I've overdosed my friends with thanks;
And hollow rings my empty hall,
No waiting eye for curtain call
As I choke on loneliness and ancient praise.
And so it goes. No birch nor rowan nor ash,
No lines upon the edge of standing stones,
And all my deeds of good are overmuch
And not enough.
So be it.
And yet I am, and shall be, a little space.
copyright 19 April 2001
by Earle B. 'Glas' Durboraw, Memphis, TN