Despair Is The Damp Of Hell, As

The Day Breaks Not, It Is My Heart.

When My Mouth Shall Be Filled With Dust, And The Worm Shall Feed, And Feed Sweetly Upon Me, When The Ambitious Man Shall Have No Satisfaction If The Poorest Alive Tread Upon Him, Nor The Poorest Receive Any Contentment In Being Made Equal To Princes, For They Shall Be Equal But In Dust.

Send Home My Long Strayed Eyes To Me, Which (oh) Too Long Have Dwelt On Thee.

But I Do Nothing Upon Myself, And Yet I Am My Own Executioner.

At The Round Earth's Imagined Corners, Blow Your Trumpets, Angels.