***
March 5, 2026 at 7:40 AM
A thrall to evils, not of mine own making,
I scan the skies — with nowhere left to gaze.
Around me, griefs and joys of others' waking,
And alien lives through blooming, dying haze.
Mine own is only where my sight is tending,
To distant heights my ebbing life I give;
In hallowed whispers, with the stars contending,
Through simple words, my lonely soul shall live.
The foreign ill is light, beyond all bearing,
Its shallow sting, a Seraph's touch of grace,
The binding rope, an Aeon’s harp-string, wearing
The mask of pain upon a phantom’s face.
How strange, that only in the snare’s tight bind,
The open Heavens greet the tortured mind!
