Melancholia calls from within the crowd
Two faced abstractions diverts from solitude
Therein lies the rub
Alone in the cell, a crowd
Each animus of nature has its own character
In this play
This circle divides yet offers no protection
A shadow, a ring, darkness all round
I look into this light
Bathed in solitude
Leave a Reply.
There is fiction. There is life. What is the difference?
All rights reserved. No part of this website may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by and information storage and retrieval system, without prior written permission from the author.