In honor of National Poetry Month in the US, here is one from my T. S. Eliot phase. This phase did not last long, which was good for me, and good for poetry.
I loved you as my destiny,
hoping to meet infinity
in giving self to self.
Now I am a book upon the shelf.
passes into tragedy,
the rending realization
of inhuman limitation:
All things must pass,
slipping through the broken glass,
meeting in conception, hurled,
the moment's destruction of the world.
Man corrupts alone, futilely
enduring, enclosed hopeless virility.
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