Epiphany of the Creative Morgue

Empty out my cauldron mind
And label it: “Infinity”
Spread me like an orange rind—
The herald of precocity.

I’ve drunk bile in my bones
At the grandest of delusions,
And reached alto in the Thrones
To clamber up confusions.

Down the river-barge I gait
To the questioning of Silence,
(A brief affair fall to spate
Volcanic nodes of violence.)

My fetus heart gone flaccid
At this chilling lack—emotions,
Has placed my soul a-placid
With each dizzying of notions.

To douse my head, and wipe my pen;
To write—to think!—of better men.