He wakes up in infinite, condensed satin.
He likes fireplace mantles famished in granite.
The best honey is a tasted kiss, and
Pure poetry is prototype candidness
Lucky is he who has the chance to observe
The rueful flight of the splendorous condor
And gladly share Queen Torheit's pure ignorance
In an aura of grandeur and fatality.
My nail-biting, suspenseful sense of liberty
Would provide his loving kingdom of dreams
With acquiesced passion, decorating it
With marble so often seen in old cathedrals.
Ah! to be nothing else than the soul's soul…
I wonder: are abysses truths, or tricks?