I stand in mid-air halfway through the night.

I look around me—this dark night is still.

(I do not fly, not mine’s the power of flight.)

And through the gloom I see the hidden hills:

Where dreamy lovers go to do things right

Or where the corpses rise and eat their fill

Of innocent flesh (and ’tis a rotten sight).

But under me is peace, and that I feel.

I hand in mid-air somewhere in the sky.

Perhaps I laugh, perhaps I quietly cry—

For, seeing dreams, and knowing what is shown,

Is burden—as a cross on one does lie.

And madness flirts with me as Time creeps by;

…I feel, I feel, this madness, not my own.


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