| Nostalgia
In a fog just before dawn, I awoke trembling,
my hands numb, and forehead sweating,
'Tis not a fever of one I would care for,
such visions of the past and ghastly rumor,
Why, O why should I grieve for so long?
The music of my memories sings a lonely song.
Mornings so grim such as this, I tend to wax nostalgic,
By sunset, I'll be yearning for a return of the magic,
Like a beast in fetters of iron so roughly wrought,
In a devious trap of manipulation I was caught.
An old poem tells us that Hope springeth eternal,
Yet I am loathe to agree, seemingly infernal.
Ah, Nostalgia, your vain parallels disgust me.
Respice finem, causa finita est, iudice me.
...
© Midas 2007
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