A LETTER TO THE ICE AGE
Thundering into the chasm of life go I
Twixt unholy deed of man and fate
Withering slowly from times’ hot winds
I smile, then crying, smile again.
Gathering promises, fulfil, fulfil.
I will write that when I'm 83. When, like an Elk, who forced to decide between a cliff and a pack of wolves, charges to his death, 9 years 4 months and 6 days later, from old age, after not deciding.
To waive commitment in favour of indecision is an enviable lifestyle for poets, philosophers, and bisexuals; unfortunately it is denied the common man. I must, at some stage in my confusion, stop, and become 83.
Then my adventure in