Cradle the scabrous murrhine well, will I .
Scintillate the palest muave, will my molten eyes .
But pity, not my pith . nor my gist .
Crippled to nothingness .
i lay on the lea of hope as the brazen summer rain washes the sanguinary and still scent of a passing winter's lash where a million stars will drop in awe of the unsullied and undefiled, pure and undefined, lucid, bright and virginal, for beyond