A Lack of
Spice
Time is so sad: it passes at one pace
With no experience of sweet or sour.
It never has a chance to crawl or race,
At always sixty minutes to the hour.
Eternity is boring: on and on
It goes, without a whisper of a breeze.
There's nothing more to come and nothing gone,
It's not disturbed but nor is it at ease.
Variety is needed: chance of change
To animate the weeping universe.
A comedy to make the old seem strange,
A tragedy to make the new seem worse.
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