With nebulous needle and Thetisian thread, what web do you weave inside my head?
Thoughts of vain glory in finely spun story in setting sun with night begun
In bed; lidded eyes heavy and falling, you come with fabulous fantasy calling;
Yet for boy insane, tis no more than strain when you feign folly in battered brain;
But do you care, dark Morphean spirit so fair, as you dare drag me to deeper layer
Of tortured anxiety, insobriety, buried in society of demons and devils haunting,
Taunting in fun begun with hidden sun? And then from above claim me to love
With cruel smile and knowing look, as the boy you embrace and dig drugged hook?
And is this the end of me till morning star rise again on far horizon to begin
New day in foulest play, or shall you stay too with face anew; again embrace
In stronger arms and trace life’s line so fine with gentler hands of pure grace?