"He seemed to weave, like the spider, from pure impulse, without reflection. Every man's work, pursued steadily, tends in this way to become an end in itself, & so to bridge over the loveless chasms of his life." - Silas Marner, Mary Ann Evans aka George Eliot.
Is death a horror?
In the routine of things, the folly of youth (does it have to be folly?) impedes;
Toiling each day, making a living (living a making?) intrudes;
Why does the man with white-picket fence rather drown in Lethe?
Who once was and is remembered no more.
Are we the captain of our souls?
Or do we adhere to a far greater Captain, Creator, Crucified
and Risen.
The living that never lived,
the life that never loved..
is a horror, is it not already death?
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