When he was young, he was immortal,
And allowed many wounds to be inflicted
On his spirit and flesh.
When he grew old, he acquired mortality
Which he wore around him, a cloak
Of night he would never shed.
He is dead now, bled dry by those injuries
Of youth and exuberance. Here he lies,
What we could catch of him.
R 30/05/2023 17:23
An up and down kind of day. I sometimes wish I had more energy to write reams and reams once I’d written the daily poem, but right now that energy escapes me (and I’m reading novels about Catholic religious doctrine which are philosophically exercising my mind, especially as I always and still firmly stand in the camp of organised faiths of all kind usurping and abusing those very faiths at their most true and basic). I also desperately need to get back to writing something substantive fiction-wise, namely the last third of The Mortality Code. And I owe it to myself to give myself some quiet times, I think. Some repose and meditation of the nothing.