To the glass, casts back my bodily wound,
Where to mirror my soul? Didn’t ink since long,
Didn’t dream. What to , though?
In this decaying December , fantasy is foul,
Sugared Scottish witch’s heath,
Sweet , sweet battle! –In the blood of torment
My pain and it’s tidal surges
My wounded metaphysics drown.
Lone pine and pew, boreal wind killed
My mechanized poetry colons ,
Snowed my morning dew.
Drew a smile , sore is my throat ,
Colored my veil of joy , acrylics and deceits
Depthless passion burning
In my cauldron , in my pot.
Sang no song this year ; died seeking
Utopia in dystopian air. Silly me.
Away from Shakespearean love;
To where exists no Montague and Capulet
Silly , silly love fearing no death,
No foe , no fight , no treaty
I pray as to my Almighty.
