It is, and is not, I am sane enough,
Since you have come this place has hovered round me,
This fabrication built of autumn roses,
Then there's a goldish colour, different.
And one gropes in these things as delicate
Algæ reach up and out, beneath
Pale slow green surgings of the underwave,
'Mid these things older than the names they have,
These things that are familiears of the god.
E.P
if i'm not myself writing well on this tasteless night i may as well let someone else speak who most certainly have had written well. i crawled into a sweet home shell these days. there's a very thin line between wanting to break out and wanting to stay in for good.
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