Surcease' PromiseThey say we are given three score and ten; I ask
For nothing more. There is no thing I know
That lasts; to hold the center a daunting task.
All joy is fleeting, all beauty but a show
That fades beneath the waves of time and fate.
I would not end my stay upon this shore
But I am glad to know it shall abate
And I shall cast aside this flesh I wore.
For though I succor others when I can
No haven greets me when the storm is mine,
And were I given some unending plan
I could not bear the weight of fate's bright line.
Mortal I am, by birth and blood and fire,
And that is well, for else of Wyrd I'd tire.
copyright E Glas Durboraw, April 29, 2002 - Chattanooga