“He is dead and gone, lady, He is dead and gone; At his head a grass-green turf, At his
heels a stone.” (IV.V.XXX)
The warm whisper of a melody winds through the air, escaping like the last embers of
an abandoned fire
From the chilled lips of crippled innocence flows the omen of foretold sleep
Up she goes, wracked with the weight of a sort of neglected recklessness, heavy
To braid-to weave-to intertwine; to speak through those which so romantically offer life
and beseech upon death
Go silently; succumb to the suffocation of the mouth and the suppression of the mind
The ferality of consciousness, the human abyss, danker than the lure of the murky
Pegasus 