Of all the real wide world and her cruelty.
Where I brush fingers, ash will ever stain,
A dusting of my grey sky memory
And the life I gladly tripped, doused and burned
With no regard for what the cost might be.
How light has left. How this dungeon comforts.
How the air and the earth terrify me.
Less a man that a foul thing nocturnal,
Preying on the dancing motes it might see
Falling, rising, colliding together
In soft chaos and silent mockery.