The pendulum swings in an arc
that draws serrated fire.
In an instant it drops low,
to swing again, ever higher.
So swings the lives of all,
The good and the ill.
The pauper toiling in his rags,
The king high on his hill.
We face the same door,
each of us in the end.
So dispense with pretense,
and to your failing, tend.
