In the bleak wind blown from space
In the dark, alone, unwilling, we embark
Hanging from the hidden roof of night
The black interim, the folded poppy
Mansions of fear, mansions of pain
Crossing the frontiers of darkness
To summon that which may consent
To be delayed, but not to be denied.

No phoenix rises from the ruined walls
I ponder now the grief of many rooms
The shadows, the colors turning
The vestal moon, the violating sun
Oh soft embalmer of the still midnight
You call to me from across the rotting sea
Rain suspended in the sky.

The central fires of secret memory
The privilege of inner life self-fashioned
The small white tapeworm of the soul
The desolate gift of liberty
No marble cenotaphs
We choose the vast of dereliction
Frail as summer flowers
Yellow wasted leaves.

The dust upon the paper eye
And the burst stomach like a cave
Grappling hands slid deep into rotten flesh
Where is it now, the glory and the dream?
Your blood and soil are piss and shit
Your honor and glory vanity's refuse.

Like the deepening of frost in the slow night
When birds are dead in the morning
There is desolation in the midst of music
Silent hammers of decay
The reddest rose is a ghost
The world that was ours is a world that is ours no more
Earth cares for her own ruins, naught for ours.

The slow approach of winter after winter
The turning seasons wither in my head
The weary fluctuations of time and distance,
Forgetfulness and dying
The grey king no longer clings to that which dies
The imagination is lonely at the great thought of death
Black void of loneliness
Worms rob the honeycomb.