Some people tan,
Some people ripen,
Some people laugh at the lamest of jokes, and

Some people seethe
While others let go,
Even when gripped by the frost of deep woe.

Some people tan,
Some people ripen,
Some people dance to the sun that has blessed them.

Some people bleed
At the thrust of a blow
After the wound’s healed up, all for show.

But you, by the sun or the moon and the stars,
Cloudy or clear, whether happy or scarred,
Pray to the gods for the sight of all men
Just to learn love and to love once again.

Hypocrites, traitors, the liars we know:
All we who sneer at the sight of their show,
Spat on and cursed by we moral folk;
But to you, brethren, and pity their yoke.

Sympathy comes and sympathy goes
Like the flip of a mob at the will of a show,
Hating and heckling, skies to the nose!
But to you, my beloved, this is what you bestow:

Some people tan,
Some people ripen,
But the villain in me is the villain in you.

When time’s cracked face will tick for us no more
At the exhaustion of our powers’ sources;
When deadline, duty, death, have ceased before
Our stolen eyes that once lit up our courses;
What new religion could replace this void,
We soulless populous of entities,
Mined out of our own our own minds, all but destroyed,
To zero down action’s infinities?
Where are you gods! Why’ve you abandoned us?
How is it that this statue’s godlike face
Feels, at my trembling touch, as cold as ice?
The more withdrawn the more these gods I chase!
Yet edging at my faithless leap awe springs,
Ascending, my descendent queens and kings.

Since I’ve performed no acts of recreation
To warp the days that trip my sober youth;
Since my vanilla life, no chocolate eaten,
Despite the sugars that attract my tooth;
Since fellow-students smoking more than nicotine,
Have left me all alone save for my glass;
Since caffeine and sweet cider are my sole fiends,
Am I no rock-god, just a sober ass?
If potions are the well of human genius,
I am as dull as lead, as glum as algae.
But if I am to join the the legends previous,
Will muddy potions taint my clear sobriety?
My tongue says yes! My money-purse says no.
Back to the cheap drinks! There I’ll sink my woe.

Time never shows his face ’til time is wasted,
Heaving from breath to breath; burnt up its air
That once inspired the life it never tasted,
Only to find meaning in our lost despair.
What cunning trick has time performed for me,
To fuel my need for greatness, poke my ambitions,
Shun love for labours, speak pretentiously,
And guild my sorry-self for a glowing reputation?
I’m at the mercy of his pendulum.
Time’s swing did catch me in his hypnotic charm,
Mislead me with a coin of gold to dance for him,
As, tick-by-tock, my neck fitted his arm.

All this he conjures though he’s not to blame.
I am to blame; my folly fits my name.