Member Poem

Oh foolish mind that puts last hope
and joy upon a mortal being;
for we are a fallible lot,
hence the instigation
of these words and morbid theme.

They were singularities afloat
among the oak leaves and those feet
that tremble down a long and forlorn street.
Sweep, oh wretched broom of man!
And later sleep upon your yield!

There’s a woman down the street!
There’s a wretch upon that sordid way
while you kneel among your pews
and pray to air!

There’s a flower wilting in the sleet,
that does not sleep but slowly dies!

There’s a tomb that won’t unearth itself!
There’s a body, there’s a mind!
There’s a corpse held shut and chained
to dearest, gauntest life!

There’s a blight I hold within my hand – 
a pen – the instrument of fools.

Hypocrisy for ink, I know;
the utmost vile of all my tools.