There is a time of a poem
When there is no firm a term
Nor fact of intelligent germ;
Of wasted allowance
nor of invested compliance.
As it all will fall into a wistful tome
Of a life once lived long, in a certain
Place, where sinews always made gain
Against the aging physics of pain.
And when one must now regretfully forgive
The reality of a mind’s purple veil of misgive.
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