"Rudderless, we drift athwart a tempest
And when once the storm of youth is past
Without lyre, without lute or chorus
Death the silent pilot comes at last
And within the grave there is no pleasure
For the blindworm battens on the root
And desire shudders into ashes
And the tree of passion bears no fruit"
Lead from a gash in a sense that marred
Servants of failure
The fiercer the frailer
However essential I disregard
I'm reconciling with distress still
A hesitating urge that spills
From amidst these insights that I barred
That flash back solace worn and charred
Spade for spade I am shifting emotions
A flustering silence is catching a hold
My conscious is countered in this commotion
An elusive alignment as your spirit unfolds
One last wistful glance
It's fading, it's waning
Our last woeful dance
As I'm tumbling, restraining
Or have I fallen
Already
For you?