I am the sad widower, dissolute;
The prince of Aquitaine, by luck deposed:
My glistening soul is dead; its jeweled flute
sings perturbed melodies until opposed!  

In the darkness of tombs, I am consoled.
Return, Oh Pospillo and the seas which doze:
The flower which pleases my heart has been sold;
And vines grow thick without the tender rose....

Am I love or Phoebus? ... Lusignan or Byron?
Still, I'm made to blush from the queen's embrace;
Although I dream in Neptune's silent place.

I have crossed the Acheron twice before:
Upon the Orphic lyre I've played by turns—
Saintly sighs and the awful cries of yore.

looking across life's scars
and seeing the grime, every germ
sunken into every sun dried pit
seeing buzzing flies
and rotting matter on the floor of
a metal tower
sometimes
humanity makes me sick
everything is just petty
or huge and momentous
new angles and directions never ceasing
in this endless
cesspit of reality
peel back the makeup for decay
watch as everything crumbles
but 'others have worse days'
its all too many standards
the gauge never enough nor too thin
to stop the globe from spinning off
an axis view to zoom in
passivity is not an option
there'll always be those who cry fail whilst you fly
but to be drawn into the maze of humanity
makes me wheel and cry
with the despair
of a heart broken mother
mourning an innocents new soul
stolen by the torments
and very blankets it wrapped itself in
from the cold; unfeeling
days old, but spent outside
yet would it be better focused in
a small soldier ant working tirelessly
where its miracles begin
but ignorant, so very ignorant
of the army rising on the opposite side
of the world, that distance it cant see
wont be around to fend off the lies
and attacks of humanity
and it's nature, so maybe it is best to be above
stay out of those grimy halls
with slimy walls
that swallow you up whole
like a blanket until you're blind
to the mistakes made and welts left behind
on the poor planets surface
in all eyes that see
staining and smoking the air that we breath
humanity is a disease
and it will spread
sometimes it makes me wish i were dead
but at the same time
how wondrous is that little bee and ant hive
in it's structure and architecture
flights and faults
the wiring of its nerval core
so intricately wove
like a pattern
humanity self obsessed
with the maze and levels and views and unending list
of further complexities
never refined
both a disease and a wonder
but still all through our minds