The Clockhand's Groaning Circles

Clutching a giant laance of brass

Within a storm

That rushes silently

Through a hallway of mirrors

Drafts and visions beform me

Poisoned air burns into wounds:

The missing entrails -

Left behind

When my waste

Was creeping to life -

Hurt and bleed

Festering from wounds

That time has torn

That brass feasts upon

... in a rhytm, in a melody ...

Destructive and discordant

And finally mute -

When the eyes awake

Behind the senile web ...

These trembling hands

Won't save my ears

From deafness

These crippled thoughts

Won't save my soul

From death.