Dyson's Fear 3.0: Untitled

Tuesday, June 10, 2008

Untitled

Part of me is feeling like I'm obsessed here, and that I should just move on.

Part of me is upset that the other part of me feels that way.

Part of me wants to write something to remember her by.

Part of me is sad that W.H. Auden beat me to it.

Funeral Blues
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.