Rage against the things which never were,

Nor never could, or would, or might have been,

That stir emotion still, though years have passed,

Still draw emotion hot and saline tears.

Rage against the wind and storm,

Against the gods who do not care,

And humans who would see themselves,

As beings divinely blessed, high on Olympus.

This petty, tiny, life so buffeted,

False started and beset by traps,

Chasing the hopes of seasons never come,

And harvests ruined by continuous storm.

It did not ask for life or breath,

Asked not for form or countenance,

Was happy in the ether wide and free,

Before it was forced to take this form.

So rage and let the rage pour forth,

Out into the night and onward into space,

Resonating until that final, dying star,

Sinks into blackness, time now broken.



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