The world is strung out on a ring
Of topaz and plaster of Paris,
Suspended from Heaven by a string
Of flax the strength of granite.

The never-ending path is paved in gold,
And cold chrome stars drift from the skies.
Yet with each step I grow weary and old.
What can my fatigued soul abide?

With lethargic gait and eyes downcast,
I commit myself to the tedious task.
Oh, fates! When will I ever learn?
With dogged resolve, nil will be returned.

In one hand I clutched an ivory knife
To sever the silver thread of flax.
But reflecting on virtues strung on lyres,
I abstained, and hid behind the stoic mask.

Before the ring cracks upon my tread aweary,
I implore the Fates, will I ever depart
From this barren band of eternity
That jealously ensnares my heart?

Copyright ©2001-2003, Allegra H., all rights reserved. Please contact me via e-mail if you wish to reproduce this material.