More bad IC poetry

[lanfykins.livejournal.com]

The past is dead, for do not all things die?
I did not love you; no one loves the sun
Too burning bright the blaze to e’er be won;
Flame trails the wren’s fall in the eagle’s eye.
Yet oh, the chill that gives my words the lie
The blaze that lighted up my world is done;
What use to me are lesser fires? I shun
Their paltry flicker; for they too will die.

There is a fire that burns throughout the night
There is a light that rises in the East
I had a dream that death is not the end;
For even after breath and pulse have ceased
No foe can quench the fundamental light.
Except for you. You will not come again.

She sighed. It was pure doggerel, and she felt no better for writing it. A waste of time she shouldn't indulge.

Still, she tucked it under her keyboard before she returned to the end of quarter projections.