After spending some time
evoking the voices of dead masters,
they speak in my sleep. Awakening
from slumber, they are no more—I am somber.
It’s not fair to find myself in those words
etched on parchment or fiddled
in typewriter print. My time is now. Today
will be my last. The art of great idiots
strung together line after line, published:
not perished. Posthumously, I tarnish
more and more as the ballads
hum ancient odes to new words. Such babble
opens a blank book; life writes again. I
close it, never remembering where I left off.
— Autobiography: A Sonnet by Rex Ybañez (via plaidshirtunion)
Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death