Alchemisland

If in amounting my feelings span yield four fields only, it is advantage:

I have land little, vantage sufficient to descry with eyes single-willed.

One has me smitten.

You, Rome, to which all roads lead.

One as I, bitten.

Senseless love’s baleful cobra,

Affection’s infection, affecting my good sense;

Scarce chinwagging passes lacking her mention.

My mind is a thing scored:

Like a targe held against drakeflaming scorching,

Or the reporting visage of a thwarting meteor untowarded,

A retort’s sole blackened – capricious canvas of scorned Athena –

Rising only at time.

Exeunt Hades and Demeter.