Why Wait For Death To Mow? Why

My Eye-balls Are Glass, My Limbs Marble, My Face Fixed In Its Marble Mask.

The Race May Or May Not Be To The Swift, But Tell Me, Is It Likely That The Fight Will Be Entrusted To The Dead?

The Quivering Of Psyche's Butterflies.

When You Would Think, "what Was The Use Of It," You'll Remember Something You Can't Grasp And You'll Wonder What It Was.

For This Beauty, Beauty Without Strength, Chokes Out Life.