Terror drips into the wells...

Terror drips into the wells of the Muse, freezing over
Her clear springs, burning the hyacinth, exhausting the poppies too
That grew around. How the tint of green gives way to brown,
As the undulating folds of life quiver, gasp, and faint: it is the light
Once illumined my way that grows faint, the spring dribbling out
That dries, while a parching slakes the pulverizing ground. How odd,
This summer-winter scorching ice and freezing flames: it is not love
That stamps the threshold of my heart, but World's sterile touch
Grown real. How I withdraw, how tendrils extending
Out from an inner light curl and withdraw like fingers brushing
Unexpectedly a sanguine stove, and roots that dwelt in air – the airy realms
Divorced from, prior to the images here sealed upon my mind
By chisel of the ears, lightning's eyes, nostrils reeking and the double
Impact on my skin and tongue of touch – now macerated on the razor of the real,
How these roots split and vanish like a mist. Oh that language were an island
On the tongue, a touch of possibilities conjured and recalled, a doorway, not a hall.