The Hour of Lead

Haven't been much inspired to write (or think) that much in the last few days. My disposition has generally been quiet, solemn, still -- reminiscent of an Emily Dickinson poem that has been floating in the periphery of my waking thoughts since Wednesday.

Figured I'd share it here, and let it speak for itself, and me.

After great pain, a formal feeling comes --
The Nerves sit ceremonious, like Tombs --
The stiff Heart questions was it He, that bore,
And Yesterday, or Centuries before?

The Feet, mechanical, go round --
Of Ground, or Air, or Ought --
A Wooden way
Regardless grown,
A Quartz contentment, like a stone --

This is the Hour of Lead --
Remembered, if outlived,
As Freezing persons, recollect the Snow --
First -- Chill -- then Stupor -- then the letting go --