It's because nothing is real that I feel like I'm coiled in a spring, sprung in a Hopkins type rhythm,
has the poet risen or is he still in the void? Oh but
there is death in the typhoid that holds no malice,
dead and so young and one more rhythm sprung.

I have in the mirror the face of tomorrow, the steam sweats up nice on my brow, but the how and the why of it take me now and I die a bit makes it impossible to see any more.

Witnesses at the door try to sell me salvation
I furnish their coffers with my own brand of damnation, they tell their Gods law,
I close the door and store this information in a box under the bed.

And nothing is real in the virtual age
we turn virtual pages and use visual aids,
there's virtual writing on vestry walls and
Jesus calls virtually every day.