Yet Not With All Of Me Am

I Was Brooding, Boy. Than Which There Is No Richer Pastime. It Muffles One With Rotting Plumes. It Gives Forth Sullen Music. It Is The Smell Of Home.

The Earth Swirls Down Through The Ominous Moons Of Preconsidered Generations.

This Tower, Patched Unevenly With Black Ivy, Arose Like A Mutilated Finger From Among The Fists Of Knuckled Masonry And Pointed Blasphemously At Heaven. At Night The Owls Made Of It An Echoing Throat; By Day It Stood Voiceless And Cast Its Long Shadow.

The Sun Sank With A Sob And Darkness Waded In From All Horizons So That The Sky Contracted And There Was No More Light Left In The World, When, At This Very Moment Of Annihilation, The Moon, As Though She Had Been Waiting For Her Cue, Sailed Up The Night.

I Am Clever Enough To Know That I Am Clever.