Confusion (VI)

The clock goes on ticking, the moon sheds a tear,

And Hell is now Heaven, and pain but a chore.

My time is now past, and yet Time’s the old whore:
The self in the world is entombed and laid here.

She shares her lust’s fruit more than once without cheer:

Desire calls waves home to lap on her shore—

But Love has decided to fade to folklore

And Time will destroy all these things I hold dear.

                To blur the lines of rhyme,

                To shrink the scale of time,

                I place this nib allowed to bleed

                On this blank sheet and leave my mark:

                Blacks, purples, greens and yellows stark—

                Just so that I my dreams may feed.

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