Staled air breathes of long enclosure, hangs here
Inside the cavern of my aching skull.
Cluttered with memories, forgot I fear,
Like ancient curling paper, yellow and dull.

The cemetary of the mind's eye-scape
Will open its yawning sepulchral doors,
Where casual worms may casually rape
My dearest dead in their fester'd sores.

So rest my thoughts in abject suspension;
No eulogy graces their monument.
Rise up winged death, to prove your transcension.
Strike down with vengeance, distress'd denouement.

Lead, o immortal ink, in thought I find,
A funeral procession through my mind.




Penned by my hand on the 16th of Slyphian, in the year 186 MA.