With my frail fingers entwined,
just- ever, so tight- so firmly,
upon this beloved bottle of wine,
I find the time to rhythmically rhyme
the things- thoughts- upon my mind.

The southern Sun has departed,
duely, beyond the heavens- horizon.
Though, I, merely, must know
that it will soon return.
I shan't remain this way eternally.
I do not feel- do not think- the gods 
wish to slay me down- ****** me.

"This world, surely, 
 has more is store, Crowley-
 for you- (You) have been through
a vast amount of distance 
& witnessed a grand number 
of events."