(sonnet # CCCXLIII)
I've heard 'tis said, in cooking frog, to do
It nice and slow; before he is aware,
Lest he escape, to start in cold; from there
The heat is gently raised, 'til without clue
He fades away, in downy warmth his few
Remaining minutes and life close fore'er.
Sans pain of knowing, fright, vain flight, all care
Quite banished, his demise unfolds, in stew?
And thus we likewise lose so much by guise
Of subtle ruin. Ere we can cry "foul play!"
We seal our doom by varied schemes; with lies
Dear subterfuge we traipse to our decay
With ease? If only Truth might ope our eyes,
Improve what time we've left, lest death dismay.
26Nov11
D24
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Author:
Chic George (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: November 26th, 2011 20:22
- Comment from author about the poem: Looking at the lost fall's mildly rainy scene and thinking it too pretty, after having so long lamented the loss of its brilliance to winter's drab dreariness, I began to wonder whether that is ever how it goes. We lose so much before we know it, seeing it gradually comes upon us. Makes the loss easier if 'tis thus nigh painless, and yet how many things might we have not lost to such steadily slow demise, had we been aware?
- Category: Reflection
- Views: 14
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