My mind, contumaciously,
Won't be adorned in tapestry
No frills or bows of fantasy
Left naked near reality,
Imagination torn away and stolen
-- no word on its return.
Plotted once, fame on you
Plotted twice, shame on me
-- fool!-- as though the shallow curls of my
Unprecedented finger prints, the mossy ink of insolence,
Could grow anything, anew, but mildew anymore
-- My hand's skin, spare to burn.
Ay, the offers to be made at cost
For what I have proposed I've lost
A short description should suffice:
I'll trade my virtue, sink to vice,
Upon the safe return of what
Gave meaning to my life.
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