To the me of my own making, seeing I am here,
I’d speak a gesture sudden and precise
to show Time’s inconsiderateness where
to head in, and Death, that busboy,
his vanity of speed.
But always here and before me,
the rude lullaby: “Sleep, Mighty Mouth; sleep and die.”
And I would like to leave,
or bring other words and worlds miles closer
as a wakeful company, and out of plain talk spin
Truth and Falsehood, the greatest weapons in the world.
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