Looking weathered, though new.
Your surface:
a dull gold.
You remind me of the face of an old woman, remembering:
possibly something from her childhood.
She will tell the story to her grandchildren,
but only after she has pulled her trusty knife through you innards,
softening your slices and the childrens' hearts
with butter,
as she prepares to begin her tale.
-11/5/08
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Death, be not proud, though some have called thee/ Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so ;/ For those, whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow,/ Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me./ From rest and sleep, which but thy picture[s] be,/ Much pleasure, then from thee much more must flow,/ And soonest our best men with thee do go,/ Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery./ Thou'rt slave to Fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,/ And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,/ And poppy, or charms can make us sleep as well,/ And better than thy stroke ; why swell'st thou then ?/ One short sleep past, we wake eternally,/ And Death shall be no more ; Death, thou shalt die.
~Holy Sonnet X, John Donne
~Holy Sonnet X, John Donne
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