And now that we have found one shred of hope,
wha' d'ya suppose will come? And now that stars
pent hitherto beyond unyielding doors
emerge, do you believe this shit will stop?
Harlequins, of swank cobweb debut,
like phosphene gleams, are really not much help;
what swarms among of mine? On nimbus-stoop
the lightnings huddle, becalmed in parallel;
clearing. And look what shards are left:
words, as one once spoke them, algid sift
from future storms, the hoür's isopleth...
i rush to catch my Starbucks, as the fetch
wanders alone in the dark, like Bacon's fifth
Pope...and on the uncompanion'd earth
Cthulhu in the mire plucks chary pitch.
Nas ne dogonyat.