caught dead in Latin squares of charms and curses,
the poet struggles, crushèd by his verses.
the rope of letters hangs limp from his ceiling;
each paper is a blade that cuts his feelings.
the pen is raised to bleed on silent wounds
of ecstasies and hate; choleric swoons
in anger’s grasp; melancholy most dark
in Night’s suffocate, and dreams of beauty’s lark-
-head knot to snare the souls of sickly flowers.
the ink doth swirl in whorls of divine powers,
the thoughts, away! —to lust, to love, to live;
as breaths of spirits, Life will quietly leave.
despair, ennui, of spines and sanguine spleen
where hearts are drowned, and life’s scars lie in streams.