Alchemisland

Breathing harder seeming this season, it is the cold and that alone

I feel cold and something in the throat, I groan and know not why

I will survive I will survive, I will bud in Spring, return alive

From the three day cave where my corpse climbed

I awake to life, straining at the light, pained by existence

The chains, the wife, the pittance I had squirrelled

Given unto a life I would not wish upon a querulous foe

Funds and finery and fine looks frittered away

Sitting here all day, wasting, a bulge in damp wallpaper

Before it sloughs off in a moist pane, decaying to xanthous paste.