Please tell me true, what is my portion of blame?Who bears the reason for my presence, and now, since I've gone, my absence? Am I the one child of no name? Well I am a bastard, yes? But am I a fool?
I have no pretense but I might try to be good. I am the son of the moment, unable to push straight through, to the end of the days.
I desire the torment and the haze, leading to that place. Forward ever forward, progress yes, be the proof!
Tell them all about your greatness, tell them you are more than an insect, a despicable child of incest, venomous, wild and living in an abscess.
I know my being so honest has troubled others. They love telling me to my face that I must be a child of a different mother, than any that they ever knew.
This flesh lives a life that is akin to walking upon a bridge from the known to the unknown. From a world that is absurd and unfair, to one of generosity and joy.
I live in sin, and burn with regret for each one within. The bridge is there, and I long to take it to nowhere.
“The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,
Moves on: nor all thy Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it.”
