Death-like phantom, pathos, so dusk dark, seems to be calling,
Though not dry, like autumn leaves, in dreams, I feel like falling;
Where do all these illusions, like morning mushrooms, spring from?
Where do illnesses, like termites in weaker wood, fast germ?
Pathos peeps from the soul, like a mouse from a filthy hole,
Scrolls, like krait, bites, pouring within...
Continue reading...