Fear lights upon my mind,

Expressing its pure grace in a unity

Of emotion; flowering, like a

Rose, intemperate. I gather my soul

Into sheaves, wheat scythed in

Crushing forms, yellow, the rays of the

Sun fallen on the earth,

Illuminating this fear of the general fate

Of song - to lose all connection to

Energy and passion, and be condemned

To the long graves,

Laid with silver and steel,

The poet left blind and mute,

Tasting the fruit of the tree of oblivion.

Few phrases, the dust of bodies

Deteriorating into night, are left

Engraved in marble eulogies.

Small angels shed salt tears

Over the necropolis of memory,

And iron fences stand cold in

Metallic irony - the stones

Of earth will long outlive

The words of the world.

I still stand caught in the webs

Of the future and the past.

Fortunate life fills me with entropic

Radiance, and the terror of the

Scent of burning leaves overtakes

Any hope which could foresee immortality.