Sometimes, I see that poor corpse as a token of doubt's sure twin, and double-mindedness, of certainty, the countervailing guess --.
-- Libra,Thomas Lynch
But how do I know my own, my decrepit
corpse, whose decay within and by subterfuge alone
wends its furtive way through sinew -- alas, too quick --
and even rots my bones?
The torture jabs, shoots, then stabs, its rasping rhythm
harsh, always eager for the repeat of bars that miss
a melody of song, even a hymn of hate. It slithers in,
defies and then deceives
its unsuspecting prey, as, too keenly focused
on the ticking hour, the delight of day,
I'm all too ready to indulge each
second with certain hope, with full abandon --
but then the pain strikes, severs
the minutes to shivering shreds, shards
of doubt, ever without a countervailing
guess, a thought of a solitary hour.