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.


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