autumns bring
a Hollowness to which
her perfumes
Fall out of the reach
of Hope, numbly, to The pale Tomb:

Still, like mirrors inversed
against themselves, eyes
paint on this universe

(of hell) their merest Paradise
outside: Spring the deserter,

Winter th'willing volunteer within
Uniqueness staring at itself

with no Culprit (here)
where Shadows I see
on the atmosphere

viciously eating up all Life's sounds
are just reflections (of me)

What's that Silence?
Almost:
Bloom's bellowing Sense

of The Profound
--Which might not reach The Surface
but whose Solemn Pitch
rattles the sober face