Alchemisland

I would be adoration’s target

I dreamt of being a star

In any field

Now the very inkling sickens quickly

More quickly than I sink to this quicksand that is life

Nothing seems to stick, though I have applied adhesives thick, slicking

My wick unredeemable grows diminutive indeed

Godspeed I say myself, nobody else willing

I tried and failed to play guitar, except on air

Long mimicked older deartháir, down to the hair

What is fair to look upon which is vacant about the sulcus

Thence look to what is fulsome, leave me to my fuligin and sulking

I am a sunken wreck, sullen and saltine, astride the rotting Hesperus

And hedgeless R’lyeh imperial, where seething Cthulhu rests deathless