Inspiration hits with a flash, stories written on the go. A rumble of laughter and the tale is heard only in echoes. The wind blows me in a new direction. Whom shall I visit next?
The weight of the pendulum pulls it hypnotic'ly
Leftwards and rightwards from high on the ceiling;
Inverted, the metronome, favoured by Beethoven,
Marks out the beat, but is empty of feeling.
Well, unlike these instruments, simple machinery,
Potent emotions propel my life's tempo--
From joy overflowing to bleak desolation,
The grim alternation keeps me stuck in limbo.
Whatever is coming, it cannot surprise me;
As soon as I'm used to it, I'll swing away,
For nothing is lasting except for the rhythm--
I'll lose all I'm given; I'm wrecked every day.
The joy is ephemeral; pain's too familiar!
They cancel each other and nothing's resolved.
My life is a nullity, vacant of meaning:
I'll do my own swinging: A weight, I'll revolve.
No prequels yet. Why not write one?
No sequels yet. Why not write one?
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