Black cascade, a fragile note hung trembling
In the thick white air: a swansung requiem
To the degeneration of myriad miraculous visions.
Then tell me, what did you see before you spiralled
So recklessly into the abyss?
Did the rainbows taste sweeter
As you tightrope-walked along the edge?

Without meaning, what are we?
No longer foolish enough to care.

Wistfully oblivious,
You stare through smeared windows
At rudely naked trees,
Aggressively still
Against a backdrop
Of mindless movement.

I hear a faint whisper
Of double-glazed wind,
But in here
Nothing can touch us:
Nothing can penetrate
This grey shroud.

In the hollows of mirror glass
The angel's eggs are cracked:
Stillborn and blushing blue,
They abandon themselves
To the dying of the light.

Away from the sanctuary of terminal sanity,
Through the blustering raw streets
Of strangely everyday normality,
I am awash with melancholy:
The image of you
Following me
Beyond the perimeter
Of our detaching;
Lines of your fractured poetry
Fish-hooked onto my tongue:
The dim resonance of psychic blood.
I am bereft,
Left questioning
What I have become.

Asylum Antechamber (Incomplete), Dee Rimbaud