My mind is a wasteland of eternal fantasy
And to see, is to hustle mirages of old age
Bowing to youth in despairing barbarity.
I am no more than a silhouette evoked with rage;
Alone On This Site
The Sun has not yet rose.
In this endless night
On this Earth I roam,
I am one, alone.
Rivers Of The Universe
Rivers of the Universe
Exile marble neophytes
In ducts faithless as Dawn:
Such freedom condemned to verse,
To The Black Muse
O' watery Muse of transparency!
Entwined within exaltation's summit
Eclipsing, from throats, vales of poesy
For the will of a canopying Hermit,
The 9th Song
We hold divinity upon our fingertips
And destiny within the cresses of our lips;
The embryo of desire, beyond sense,
Unlock's memory's key to existence—
Then, with a weak hand, he wrote:
‘I must stop dreaming, I am nearly seventeen,
To forge that grand old age bespoke
I mustn't rest in an evocation wisdom has yet seen