Ode on a Boring Blog

Thou still unceasing tide of quietness,
Thou foster-child of Silence and Slow Mind,
Mental historian, who canst thus express
A flowery tale more sweetly than thy archives;
What brilliance-tinged thoughts haunt about thy drafts
Of deities or mortals, or of both,
Who can say whether any shall escape?
What mental lapse is this? What empty thought?
What mad pursuit? What struggle to put forth?
What types the fingers? What? ...