The Red Queen’s Game

Too much of a hurry here – yet
Rushed on purpose almost, running
Short-track, not since I'm adverse

To rest but any hurry's better far
Than waiting for perhaps my voice,
Something thought well-controlled, that words

Those awful doubts, thoughts better
Repressed, docketed, tied in waxen string
And growing dusty over the long years

Of willful neglect. No eyes in their
Right minds would want to open up
Those bundles of dull papers as the

Fading ink is to hard on the eyes; only
Grey-coated historians might find
Anything of use in all this junk.