How I quake in the vespers
Of an artificial light, the flickering sconce
By which my memory is subsumed;
Lost all sense of shame and forbearance
Camped out in my hermitage of ennui,
I look to a morning coming when
The cradle will not forbid to spill
Me from it, melted in the substance
A chimera, drenched with the blood
From a Philosopher’s Stone.

How strange dissolving reds,
Neither here nor there a moderate chemistry;
There is a Gibbs’ light fading, seeking,
Teetering on a balance before capsizing –
Like an oil tanker in a rough northern sea,
Within the sight of land.


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