Missing

Missing
Retarded nightmares claims my rest
with dreams of done deeds that speaks no zest
of tales and times in words in page.
Will thee believe in this sage of age?

My deeds sings no wrong nor right
only of the undone in the far-off sight.
Now these are my dreams in the hours of late,
who be the just judge of deeds and fate?

Turmoil arises, if he exists
as under his sway, ceases wits and mischief
yet what is to do in such perfection
when all are just in one complexion?
where goes the spare for faults to grow
and the triumph of faults to shine and glow?

All things, wicked and charming, tells all a story
perhaps pleasing, perhaps not, both ends eventually.

But know the decided time, the hours no more nor lesser,
we are the judge and jury of our chances

Łŋ
27th August 2008