What is there within me today, that is deep and dark?
Complex chocolate foamy loam,
Worm dwelling, corporate shelling,
Ruined lives buried in glee?
What in me was dark is grey under siege,
In moments of such madness as these,
A poem is a silent angel of futility,
Parading unpretty in the hall of shame…
What is this world of melee?
What is proven if anything of fire?
There is but a chink of gold,
In each pearly sunset mound of flesh.
What is my glory, my honor?
Through words hot and cold,
I fly in incomprehensible circles,
And make my futile art of—