It's as black
as Lucifer's cauldron,
on dark Sabbath nights,

a pitiless profound silence,
a pit of atrocious vacuous horror,
a midnight chasm full fathoms deep,

where thoughts echo endlessly
to eventually flutter like
an errant vulture's soft down,
into that inky blackness
that is the centre
of his soul.

Which is why he needs
monogrammed towels
in his golden bathroom,
for those days
when he just
cannot recall
exactly who
or what
he is.