Finis
Uncharmed by the bloom of fresh roses white,
I shall with the mute prop of unspeaking sticks,
Like a bored mollusk loathe my slowing walks;
And pine for eternal still with wee cursing clicks.
Uninspired by thrills of chart-topping songs,
And no longer revived by their lisping beats,
And aided by sad hammers and rioting tongs,
I soon shall fault all Earth and her tepid treats.
Not fresh world's trending fashion’s catalogues,
Nor its luring vogues in their cyclic monologues,
Shall this last pilgrim's going even slightly delay;
All men’s warmth unwanted obstacle in my way.
Thievish night's erstwhile dreaded gloom
Shan’t prove such a feared quieting tomb,
For her dusky shroud may better warmth
Spell than all sluttish breath's jaded cloth.
I’ll gradually disdain these slow-turning rounds,
And slowly uninterestedly rise to stiller grounds.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
