Birdsong-testing cages in Midasian flavours
The taking by stages of crazed ladies, Maenads maybe
Would kill anyone to sustain this imagined elevation
This feeling of self-made greatness
The happy taking of honours
The lake of unspecific applause, the busiest table
Everyone listening to everything I have to say
They take away more than the words contained
Everything changed but I cannot describe how or why, in a way
Nobody cared about anything I made, then suddenly I’m worth hearing out
Before they could not hear me
Even when I shouted fiercely, lips touching their ear
Now I cannot stutter without some flutterer gushing, calling it a wonder
Things become altogether too cushy
A man needs some roughness; the Muse does not suffer
One too often succoured
Be glad to sometimes suffer
To give context to the other.
Alchemisland 
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