Classic Poem

Dowering lust, thy tainted ego's apparent thrust—
That of preciousness—viewed their offspring burden.
The unfelt, assuming vein of inert,
Unwoven silk of wind, fated; an adrift cocoon
That spun effulgence, powdered hues
O'er an orient vase, beat gay laurel wreaths
Against thoughtful brows and held its own.
O wandering haste, I chose such mien to pray;
But patient, sapient, script was sure to lose
Its stead lay, e'er I look about, forget to think of old
Grey night and day, but deem within
Confusion's lore that tore the
Reflex apart from me, thy beaten shell shall
Burst, hence ne'er to part with apparent, triumphant chaos.