Tales of a Poor Poge by Richard Palmer - HTML preview

OMEGA

I grow tired.
Time’s elusive treacheries now return

And distill life to such a casual circumstance,

The loose ends of my dreams are solitary and alone,
My empty whims left the fiber insubstantial

And hungry to be spun again.

In a whole there might have been meaning,

Some noble purpose for life’s long endeavor.

I fear to ask myself: “What was the meaning?”

I knew! Or did I know?
My answer comes undone now, haunts me.

I make ready to die,
Too late for such high thoughts.