What is life but mayhem barely grasped
Actions performed clasping hissing asps
Wroth what, louder sound amongst sounds
Storm dormant little envies that raging now
What the championship sash but wraps to cloth cerement on your death
Earthen firmament cloven doth oven heat’d eat stink with slight ceremony
When the presiding priest is seen frightened, writhing
When the writing on your headstone blaz’d, night igniting
Highting one who rested there unwilling
Unwanted dwelling place of the grave
About your form once fair stagnancy redoles the air
Now maggot-aboded, rank declared
Cerecloth as swaddles an Egyptian Pharaoh
Urned organs interned with birdvisaged Thoth of inkpot
Girdling the lissome stairwell of your corpse afarewell
Which many times that everliving soul hoist to boldness according at holy order.
We turn
To our own lives
To our futures
To visages like our own
With singing spheres
With surprise or fear
We turn, and return
Death spurning
Endless journey
Everything we undertake, nothing we do, dunecastles impermanent
At every lake we exeunt unslake, we are by this very earth’s turn spurned.
In the churn, burning great cities to scree return
Using debris, we build lesser things in mimicry
All of it ever, hatched or sapling, made to feed the seas
Ogees, arches, cyclopean walls perilous with elfin archers in mythic pelts
Dells undelved, dwelling place of Dwarves at hell’s halfway
All reached height that salitter worldtides at final swelling o’er taste’d.
Alchemisland 
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