Gustave Courbet, Self-portrait (The Desperate Man), c. 1843–45.

Beating to the End

Being upon my timely yore,
Laid back, then, one lovely lore,
Which if known would obscure
Every chance of ill & cure.
But does deeply rest in clay,
& in hearts through night & day.
Held through the walls of womb
To the biding halls of tomb.
& beating at the edge of craze;
reaching, leaving, stops & ways.

Beating at the shores of sea,
Oh, my lovely friend of me.
Though in absence, ever here,
Though you inspire awe & fear.
Leaving my nature confined
into one deep state of mind:
Beating at the end of craze;
Knowing not who leaves or stays.

Being prayer, sweet & share,
through the turnout of despair.
Having guts to stay instilling
in times of sheer unwilling.
Beating to the end of craze;
Dare departing ever each place.

Being, knowing, you die slowly:
Life as lush, as true, and holy.
Beating to the end of craze,
Truly Living; Dying all days.
Being to the end of craze,
To die: to become always.

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