which of these fretted deeds that lend purpose to my soul and vision to my heart and in part and in whole sustains and feeds with priceless art and fills my cluttered head with tender sounds of glory lending compass to my tread and direction to my story
which, which fretted mark will wither slowest on the posthumous stalk and which will float in endless dark and which will run, which walk, which talk to those who are not yet here?
which others will move to weep strangers born to some future sun which of my present pain eke out their tear? and which to lose, and which to keep and who will take the pick when all is literally said and done? who and which and why and when as carbon dust comes round again and all that’s left is silent word and empty sound who will choose those bits of me? the bits that swam, or those that drowned?
with which small fretted deed will those who are not yet, yet see the soulless think of one now freed? [the fretted deeds of rick…