AtLast_[07]

Equal wind-harps of my storm. Equal shadows of my form. I jumped that wall To thrust a pen Into an eye, Quite fully in. See this!

Thrusting deep To stylus' length Ripping hearts

With all my strength. From eyes and ears To paper, set Scrolls of tiers Of parapeted men.

But what would that beget? And if begotten, gotten, let? Belial swells of mindless curses Angels float on heaven's verses. Can I sour daemon's whey And gag them at their play?

I don't know.

But, starve them of their fiendish meals

Disenchanting spells they wield? Maybe. With only feeble hope of spark

I kept on into dark It was darkness lit Of burning eyes Searing city streets, Of cries Reprised, As British troops,