A manifestly singular manner about them
How they bled and mixed their meanings
Weaving the permanent and sacred words
Providing a window of joy or epic sadness
Their creation was a sort of poetic zen
With Percy's plague of waking dreams
Lord Byron's flawed heroes and swords
Perfect economy in WCW's Red Wagon
And with Ezra, such an exquisite madness
When I read their words I entered freely
Into the most splendid, luxurious palace
And my feeble mind was left reeling
From a determined profound contagion
That has never left me, while I shall die
Words that I write will fall ever forward
And they themselves will be never dying
“My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!”
―
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!”
―
