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.