Staled air breathes of long enclosure, hangs here
Inside the cavern of my aching skull.
Cluttered with memories, forgot I fear,
Like parchment paper, yellow and dull.
The cemetery of the mind's eye-scape
Will open its yawning sepulchral doors,
Where casual worms may casually rape
My dearest dead through their open sores.
So rest my thoughts in abject suspension;
No eulogy graces their monument.
Rise up winged death, to prove your transcension.
Strike down with a word, a worthy denouement.
Lead, o immortal ink, in thought I find,
A funeral procession through my mind.


Penned by my hand on the 12th of Slyphian, in the year 204 MA.