Plain n' simple true,
Dread is wholesome and
Speaks in quakes, here. For the
Monster fear looms ever near.

Slow it creeps, wagging tongue
Dripping lies like maggots
Spill from the bloated dead.
Vigor and lust are well eaten
And moths and dust are all
That remain of 'love-making'.

But tracing at first, golden
At the very last glimpse.
Wet eyes, hushed gripes at
nothing: Behold, I'll march.

I'll march well-receded upon
The dusk. I'll march well-seeded
Upon the morn'. I'll march well-sympathised
Upon the wine-smooth caresses of dawn.

For a ghost longing for death, I am
What is plain. What is simple. What is
True.