Even Unto the Final Hour

From the top on down,

Irrationality reigns

flush with self-righteous,

self-serving indignation.

This modern MacBeth

learned naught from his ancestor:

“And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.”

Yes. Blow wind! Come wrack!

Yet no noble death awaits.

Only cold irrelevance!

2 thoughts on “Even Unto the Final Hour

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