I kept of waking up last night. Tossing and turning and coming in and out of weird dreams. It is as if the fabric weaving has been on my mind so much that now my thoughts and physical states are being weaved into another existence. Sounds weird, I know. I have only had a few sips of coffee so far. I don't recall any of the dreams, just the over all sense of oddness.

But changing note, I just received an email from one of my closest bests friends in the world. And she sent me a very interesting and thought compelling poem:

Percy Bysshe Shelley

“Ozymandias”

I met a traveler from an antique land
Who said: "Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things.
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed.
And on the pedestal these words appear:
'My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings:
Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!'
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away

 

What are your thoughts on Ozymandias?