Burton Did Not Believe In Miracles .

Reader, Pray That Soon This Iron Age Will Crumble, And Beauty Escape The Rusting Cage.

Imagination Is Like A Muscle. I Found Out That The More I Wrote, The Bigger It Got.

Caught Beauty , Held To Light, Now Apes A Good, Now Evil, Thing The Shifting Sign And Spectrum Of Archaic, Psychic Shapes.

Miles Above The Earth We Know , Fancy's Rocket Roars. Below, Here And Now Are Needles Which Sew A Pattern Black As Pitch, Waiting For The Rocket's Light.

Beauty In This Iron Age Must Turn, From Fluid Living Rainbow Shapes To Torn, And Sootened Fragments, Ashes In An Urn, On Whose Gray Surface Runes Are Traced By A Norn, Who Hopes To Wake The Future To Arise, In Phoenix-fashion, And To Shine With Rays, To Blast The Sight Of Modern Men Whose Dyes, Of Selfishness And Lust Have Stained Our Days...