Alchemisland

Two misty mornings in a row, up hours before cockrow

Wondering how I can grow, like Silent Hill outside

Nothing of it derides, lending that prized vista a sense of living history

As if the mysteries of wordless epochs could be evinced through this mist

As it parted, as soon departing having imparted partially some lost art

The sky looms large, blue as Marge’s hair, witch-souled March Hares 

Playing on manicured lawns, I am manacled in my bawn, chains of madness

Stay me today, I cannot engage with this problem I have made, put paid to

Rumours and hearsay, engage with the talkers, ask what they’re saying

And why, I won’t pay them unto silence or deny what I would not trialled for

I let a lie speak for itself, I am pensieve despite having spent my fortune

On an apartment in Hell’s centre, near the acrid vents, west of heaven