That black it—

Consumed some with led,

Took the glass terrarium,

Corrupted my head,

Defamed the sacrarium.

A mirror—

Awaken that man,

Drain a blue pint from the neck.

In circles they ran,

Algorithm cause a wreck.

Sorry. Sor—

I’m taking it down,

From where the grave-walker slept.

What he’d give to drown,

Under where the moss had crept.

It’s packing—