While questing once in noble wood of gray, medieval pine,
I came upon a tomb, rain-slicked, rubbed-cool, ethereal,
"Its inscription long-vanished, yet still within its melancholy fissures..."
The painter's brush touched the inchoate face
by ends of nimble bristles
and with their blush of first color, rendered her lifeless cheek living.
E'en the most gifted bard's rhyme can only sing
but to the lack of her and all she isn't!
His tongue doth...
A moist, black ash dampens the filth of a dung-dark rat's nest
and mingles with the thick scent of wood rot
while the lark song of a guttersnipe...
Twas first light when I saw her face upon the heath,
and hence did I return, day-by-day, entranced,
tho' vinegar did brine my heart, never...
Tis oft'-remarked, no single, falling-flake does any other
in its pure and perfect form...
"If this to be me end, farewell!
cried the woun...
You see, there are still faint glimmers of civilization left in this barbaric slaughterhouse that was once known as humanity.