Beatifically, I gaze upon the pale horse,
Its approach, so swift, so silent,
Carrying platitudes that hang in the air, empty and profound.
Peripatetic thoughts drift in this weary mind,
Melancholy on my mind, a companion familiar and strange.
In the scope of this existence, where truth bends,
Verisimilitude crumbles before the solipsistic gaze.
Appropinquate, oh, great unknown, with your verisimilar face,
Yet behind you, chaos dances corybantic, wild and untamed.
The Pickwickian fool chatters of wisdom he does not own,
A sciolist in this grand masquerade,
While I stand, rooted in the question of it all,
Waiting for the pale horse to pass,
Or perhaps, to pause, and offer one last platitude.
Peace and blessings!
