It is dangerous to linger here.

The danger comes from Time,

Who can steal upon you silently,

And calmly rob you blind.

You sit and think, and think and sit.

Not achieving much.

You tell yourself, it must be right,

Perfect, gold, and such.

Long before you’re satisfied,

You will move on.

Leaving in your wake a trail

Of “almost-done.”

Weep, lament, mourn your lost


You could have tried, at least,

To best this.

Now, we cannot know

What great

Works you might have made –

Too late!

All we know right


Is that you have


To the gods

Laze and Sloth.

O, lost!

No cost





All works, words and art contained on this blog are the sole creation and intellectual property of Nicholas Biddle unless otherwise indicated. They may not be reproduced or used in any way without proper credit and consent. Thanks for reading and enjoying!




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