Quiet this mind, ‘ere I cannot percieve;
sort these words which clutter my head,
as disarrayed thoughts cause me grieve,
’tis such, I cannot feel my worded bed.
O’, shameless, flagrant, worded whore;
this mind, in youth, had but to dream,
yet now but scathed, no less, no more,
‘ere I should but try, as much as seem.
Still, these strains of chaos surround;
that words cannot paint what eyes see,
‘ere thoughts unchained do yet abound,
but let them thrive as they seem to me.
I am, but words, the sum of all things;
‘ere I have been, what I have known,
such life comes, untamed, and stings,
but worded bed gives this mind home.