The djinn of night has grown teary,
and upon his sullen ponderings,
I molder weak and weary:
I audience its voluminous tome;
a totem of taboo lore—
a tale—obscure and lonesome
in its wrangle of mores,
a tragedy wherein a wild chime dwells in total sublime:
out of space—out of time,
(And far from matter)
—A cheerless dreamland…

It’s rapt with bottomless vales
and quivering floods,
whose boundless deeps no man can fathom,
nor tread without the yoke of fear tensing shoulder—

Revelry, here, is dismal like the Nile dried over—
each chapped bed—the more unholy,
every belly-up fish, the more melancholy—
I heed not the lolling tears of night
they carry only sheeted memories—
of a past that seldom was;
for, like their dusk, shrouded in form,
they pass my wonderment by—
bowing as love does to rut
and in the bliss of deference
I find its legion of woes—
The shadows that stomp,
Rout and plunder shallow comforts of darkness:
The confines—the domicile, the heaven that forfends,
Forbids itself from exposure—


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