The Stigma Of Oddness Is The Price

Rapture's Self Is Three Parts Sorrow.

How Loud Clocks Can Tick When A Room Is Empty, And One Is Alone!

If What We Worship Fail Us, Still The Fire Burns On, And It Is Much To Have Believed.

This Is War: Boys Flung Into A Breach Like Shoveled Earth; And Old Men, Broken, Driving Rapidly Before Crowds Of People In A Glitter Of Silly Decorations. Behind The Boys And The Old Men, Life Weeps, And Shreds Her Garments To The Blowing Winds.

In My Stiff, Brocaded Gown. With My Powdered Hair And Jeweled Fan, I Too Am A Rare Pattern.