Cleansed
washed among haven
Black
and grim not shaved
Man
with a wild faithless lark
Heard
sing before lonesome day
Mighty
wind coarse bare
First
weep my secret
Sprite
drown by dark stones
of
life’s heavy medicine
Years
rotted dreams, and bore
But
strange face and names
world
now awake with a dizzy brain
Misery
the thick roof the trodden year
Stones
still covered in their footprints
Of
the elevated right handed red glove
it
strings wound to woman wrists
but
guided not by it.
Lying
there dead man called
O
God, My head my heart my soul
Groaned
but twice a guilty man
Nothing
lifeless yet feared
Who
spilled life
Guilt
drew round pledges
Of
Stronger temptation
A
Horrid hint at yearning
Impulse
the slave of one’s thought
Buried
deep within our own glory
Burned
upon our stakes
Loves
flesh delicate so easy does it bleed
Fathoms
of our fancy armed by silly words
And
who is to save them
The
gloomy shrubby chumps of dreams
O
stage desolate of players
A
board checkered painted white
The
enemy banished by so simple words
This
had been our battle
Words
still old unchanged
One
grows weary of them
Archaic
ideals to some aesthetic ideal
Draped
behind purple curtains
Vanished
leisure of plain whisper
That
so pleases one
To
the fountains of dry words
Of
dull useless study
Shatter
words of principle
That
none seems to hold
In
the house of our woe.
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