"who scribbled all night rocking and rolling over lofty incantations which in the yellow morning were stanzas of gibberish,"
[but before then, in midnight Silver Chair, were frightening unbearable unbared truth]
who, when tiredness and wine drew out the blood-liquid
from their capillaries-fingers
like tingled yellow crystals to prick and tear from inside
when hope withdrew like tired shells
of echoed songs of rejected thoughts
of chambers null and void and pointers
foxes pubs and drawl; "echo, fox" and public brawl
speckled truth; speckled, ken?
never return, heading town, meadow port and all the cherubim draw their unseen swords, where not even the oxen shall cross their fjords...
who indeed, will call me by my true name
or to whom can I read out the scroll,
my seeming complaint
till we have faces
till we can bear to look in the mirror
of shame tired pain and care
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