The Skull of the Night
The night comes down heavily upon the skull
In every fancies of wired images:
Lady Macbeth's dagger or Old Hamlet's ghost;
Or in my own term - ripped off from the organic herbs.
Yes, it came to be, a being
With conviction and character
Of a hullabaloo, buried in silence.
I fear the gesture, unwelcome,
And the pathos of lost self,
Tearing down the heart tonight
In benign pathos.
Havoc wrecking in my bio-chemistry,
Diluted in the solution,
As my corp cooling in the formalin-wall.
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