We’ve said enough of nothingness
To bury us, and I confess
To nothing less than emptiness
In garbled wails.

My lustrous mind resigned to Grief,
The all-devouring master thief:
His greed abiding no relief
Until the grave.

Their feathers fall like dusk, and sit
As bible-black assailants flit
In maddened haze throughout the pit
That was my brain.

The spirals spiral downward still;
They narrow, suffocate, and kill,
But never seem to have their fill
Of suffering.

There are no words, there is no time;
No tolling bell, no song or chime;
Our heaven’s built of rubble, grime,
And feasting worms.

Tell Mother Death to wrap me up
In tattered blankets: I will sup
Eternal from her bosom’s cup,
And ever rest.

As haven to a mourning crow,
A barren tree in years will grow
From in the shadow-sea below,
Where I reside.

The vestige of a soul, I sleep
Where neither lies nor whispers creep:
In frozen ages of the deep
‘Til kingdom come.