of your appetite for what
can be called the pleasant noises
so overmade the volumes
Thus wheels spin of my machine
To where away and far
Basking in the titles I've made
as singular, one, and yearn'd
One of few prisons I've made
I travel and rack my head
O'er the floors up high
Tower of my creations
What I may ask is not
releasing the villain
For he obscures my vision and
I throw myself down to the ground
To when I return will I hear
disdain or silence or judgment
So do I create false ballads
of great joy?
Nor will they read the verses
upon which I dissolved and throe'd
Or perhaps ask and analyze and pick
the grains upon my crown
So ride the wheels through a haze
of intoxicated light and movements
wandering wondering what will
stake within his abode
