I ask you to look into a mirror.
You ask why and comb your hair.

I ask you to stop and breathe.
You smirk and run away.

I ask you to stop living a lie.
You continue with your slow death.

Blaming W.B. Yeats

IBH English taught me to love Yeats' poetry. It taught me many things truth be known. Today I am tortured by having learned of Yeats; having learned and accepted his theory of cycles.

Today a dreaded cycle has seem to have insidiously returned. For again, I am waiting in silence. This silence is not deafening though, this time around, it is accompanied by the dripping of blood.

Yet again, a slouching beast returns to be birthed.