Would it have been worthwhile
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it towards some overwhelming question°
Flipping the pages, a lapse in time -
The faces change, but they're all the same.
A blinding light stops me cold:
What a sight to behold!
My feet are embedded in a pit of tar.
I cannot move; this story is old.
Stop thinking and stop stalling,
Your actions are appalling.
If I were to advise a friend,
"It's for the best to stop this trend."
Coiled up in homage to the womb,
Slender digits do the talking.
The message is clear, but
Here is the inevitable balking.
Time after time destiny is shunned,
But she is a forgiving beast. Again she tries,
Yet I am stubborn, so there is no compromise.
There begins a silent whisper;
My destiny is calling.
My arms are full, my mind is blank.
Can I learn to not resist her?
Can I ignore the hands that push?
Can I make them pull instead?
Then the thought, clearer and crisper,
If I were to advise a friend,
"It's for the best to stop this trend."
The hourglass tumbles sideways
Freezing the pace, the time, the hands -
But my mind always wanders,
Wondering just where I stand,
Why the body ignores demands.
And then begins a swirl in the sands.
I am lifted up and my carcass lands
Still paralyzed, but my mind ponders,
Is there a reason for suspension
Of the natural order of the race?
When the sun has set this many times,
Is it right to still commit these crimes
Against the natural order of the race?
When my sentence has expired,
And my limbs regain their motion,
The windows have closed,
And an angry destiny has bolted
Up the chance to change my stance,
And to enhance this circumstance.
But days will pass; I will not be forgotten.
Again I will have an encounter rotten.
But when the question is repeated,
My answer remains, I stay seated,
And the others feel cheated.
Before the final nail is driven,
If from discretion I am riven,
I will attain what for I have striven.
Nonetheless it will be different.
As the 'taker tucks me tightly,
Nothing is solved - not even slightly.
° - T.S. Eliot's "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock", 90-93 |
