For my Poh-Poh.
What a weak thing the mind can be,
What delusions it can be made to see.
Formed from figments insubstantial,
Fears from statements wrongly inferential,
Slowly strangle and encumber,
Waking dormant demons from their slumber.
Hope’s dread cousin Doubt doth recline
Playing the heartstrings of restless minds.
Addled, untrusting, fearing all,
History present, and present in thrall
Of shadows cast by intruders benign,
Which can’t be dispelled by truth’s brilliant shine.
Lost in this thicket of mental debris,
Guided by dictates of unsound degree,
This hoary one wanders, searching for rest,
Finding no quarter to quell her distress.
To return Home, click here.
© 2008 Christopher C. Chan