In the grip of a lingering malaise
my Spirit writhes in silent anguish
mute testimonial to far better times
than this...

the ancient Serpent asleep in the blistering Sun
hides like a Scrooge my store of mighty powers
I am bereft, alone & adrift on a raft of damp
matchwood, no light nor spark of glory

caught in a tempest of invisible forces
drowned in the doldrums of the Unseen
with a tongue too tired to call for help
but alas! not tired enough to stop complaining

ye Gods! are dead & demons are abroad
the real estate of Hell is a good investment
whilst I stubbornly maintain that in Heaven
there can be no real estate

since in Heaven
nothing is real
but beauty
and Beauty is Truth
said Keats
how true!


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