Cynicism settles
in my throat
like a pine cone.
Its charm,
long before senility's alarm,
lengthens the days
into dragging things.

From such, a daze
is gathered, (as if a film of dust
or a dry fog)
cloudy damnation
eating at the eyes.

What love runs
deep
as the well of desperation?
Its borders seek
to close around the world;
itself a hole that sinks
into the earth.

Each glaring drop
that rises from its store
comes ebony
and tarnishes the soul.

Alas, why do I drink from such?
There from which
but dour thoughts derive.

Ah, it's for
a glammer twixt its gloom-
a pain so thick
thinks emptiness absurd.

It dons its crown
and scepter at its throne,
laughing, crazed,
at every lover's sword.

Thence comes
the wonder of the thing.
Mine blame falls
upon the mind of man
(or if t'were god
that lay the bricks,
His hand.)

Why dark does grow
so well and fast as life,
while love is slow
and instigates discord.

Yet relished,
deep within my secret heart,
I fear this silence
creeping through my flesh.

That I should let it
rule all matters through.
That I should let it
take me once again.