To you who thought it a game,
To you who thought Words
Made redundant were all the same,
I cannot cast a rock, any blame.
But Words made redundant
Stone me with agony.
Fiery action dulled by cold dirt—
Being buried alive with self-acrimony.
Even Ozymandias held much more;
Sandy dunes far better than a muddy heart,
Mottled with lies, clogged with lore
Able to stop, unable to depart.
A few inches closer,
Life falls into place.
A few inches deeper,
Life finds another space.
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I wonder if Tennyson was putting together fancy words; love lost is not better than love undiscovered.