A Comic and a Poem

As always, I have too many thoughts, but these ones are a little more chill—on average anyway.

I do love math; it articulates so many things so well.

In other news, have you ever had the experience where you ask for something specific, and somebody provides you with something vague?

I have had this experience too many times.
Don't get me started on punctuality.
I'll have to do some diagram that shows how people think about time.

Not going there either.

Deutsch ist einer schöner Sprache. Ich vermisse es. Ich vermisse Deutschland. Ich vermisse so viel von Europa. Vielleicht sind sie nur meine kleine Träume, aber ein großer stück meinem Herz bleibt in Deutschland.

I miss many things. I have so much wistfulness. What do I do with it all?! Write more poems I suppose.

Did you read my last one?! It was pretty amazing. I know this is a bit stinkerly of me, but I'm pretty sure no one asked because "excerpt" is no longer a familiar word.

I suppose I can share it though.

Too Late For Death

Another hour and it would be

The time to bring eternity

To this young man and his short life,

For now his end had come.

He checked his scythe, its glinting blade.

He checked the clock and how it swayed,

Each tick and tock a chipping knife,

A gentle, beating drum.

And so he waited patiently.

The scene was set so perfectly.

A weary smile adorned his face

Beneath his ebon cloak.

The clock began to strike its tune.

Another soul would join him soon

Down in the quiet resting place

For simple, mortal folk.

The clock had chimed its final tone,

But, lo, the man had never shown,

And weary smile became a frown

Of doubtful memories.

All sudden, through the door he fell

With eyes that glowed with lovesick spell,

With grin more foolish than a clown,

And laughter like the breeze.

"You're late," exclaimed the shrouded ghoul.

"How dare you take me for a fool!"

And up he hefted scythe and death

About to strike him dead.

The lad's bright eyes did recognize

The reaper with his ghastly guise,

But stood he stolid, calm of breath

And, smiling, shook his head.

"I know your purpose and your name

I know exactly why you came,

But nothing matters now that I

Have had her lips on mine."

Yet death pulled back his mortal scythe;

The boy was calm and even blithe.

"Quite soon enough, we both shall fly,

But what makes your face shine?"

All words did fail the tipsy boy.

Each corner of his face was joy.

He dropped himself upon a chair

And softly whispered, "love."

"In love," he said amidst his sighs.

"Her hair, her scent, her smile, her eyes.

She is the fairest of the fair

No matter where you rove."

"But you have work to do," he said

As he began to nod his head,

"Don't let me keep you from your task,"

And drifted off to sleep.

The reaper watched him for a while,

Then his own face broke with a smile.

"Another day, I'll have to ask,

For this I cannot reap.”

- 7/16/2016