Come, strut and fret your hour upon a page,

and in this hazy, idle afternoon

do watch, do listen, filterless and calm:

there goes a wistful walker, there an eye

would read a greater mind, but lags in thought,

and there in placid recompense - for what? -

this young and insubstantial flagellant

brings lazy blows to bear, a world apart.

Time passes as the ink dries on a quill,

betokening some chaos for them all,

but no one, with the sunglight standing tall

has much of fear for any future ill.

And somewhere someone would not say the same -

perhaps some other day you'll hear his name.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Thoughts of a summer nigh-afternoon.

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