The words unspoken rest within the tomes
of dictionaries and thesauruses
Their overpopulated muted homes
await the poet to give them voices.
"Oh! Wordy friends, beseech your help I must.

Ligeia is my Greek siren singer.
Singing warmhearted songs of happiness
At night, I waking at sunrise to her
Indescribable Psyche* loveliness.
Although oracles consulted are wise

God said all you angels will now bow down
In reverence to my most choicely deed.
Man is of my image; gather around
Bestow on him your praise. Who’d take the lead?

Most of us at one time or another take this marriage vow. At the time it is usually a rote recitation because we are young and our attention is on other imminent matters.

I am a stranger. My reclusiveness
And painful lonesomeness in my exile
Is severe. But yet in my aloneness
I contemplate an unknown charming isle
And this meditation surfeits my dreams

Lo! Death resides atop that lofty hill.
Expanse of Donn, the ruling god of death.
With eponymic marble monoliths-
Desideratum prodigality.
Extravagance! A lifeless lavishness

I often sit and ponder many things
A host of multifarious subjects.
A few perhaps are shallow but they bring
Me food for thought. The balance is complex.
At times I think about the universe

Aesop, Fables 533 (from Babrius 70) (trans. Gibbs) (Greek fables C6th B.C.):

Wakes are supposed to be a tradition where friends and family pay their respects to the deceased. On this point, I do not disagree.

In the lower courts, being so many and varied, not everything is considered.
This is one of the many examples:

Billions of journeys round a fiery eye
This watery celestial traveler made.
Untiring, spiraling route through the sky
Always returned from yearly crusades.

The raging storm occurring outside my window
Can not compare to the constant choler
That tempers my heart this maniacal moment.
Why? Would you like living a pawn of love?

I blush when I think about the makeup
Of Man. At birth he‘s weak and insecure.
He’s helpless, ignorant, a little pup
Has more going for him than this treasure.

Its December. Another year is just about over.
Standing in front of a mirror in a bathroom
Is a man. He gazes into the face looking back at him,

My soul has left my tired earthly shell.
Guided by a holy hierophant.
We hover, moving, seemingly propelled
Into a brilliant limbo Labyrinth.
A vaguely familiar and friendly place.