No man, before or since, has gazed With such abandon at my face. The net he built to capture me now Lays in the corner of a forgotten field Of hay. The hallways now remain In their cold, clean, clincism where
Death, like a spectre, Meanders the river-run Of wires and tubes.
No-man, before or since, has gazed With blank abandon at his face. Pallor stains the tear-dropped face Of God, and Santa, and all thatβs holy. We threw words at the air. We heard The Morse reply that it He is