Heed May circle with no bounded ink curve
And from thy empty dead-end dream point curl
zero from which all rhymers of love carve
squared meter keen in my poem whirl:

Mount pyramids of thee hushed daily sighs

Into endless plays of a missing self,
Give Globe wit and mirth then twist all to cries;
stage shaft for me to be roused ‘live in delf,
hand witches might to chant fair is foul,
foul is fair, for; day by day thee sink grim—
in a tick thou turn tense like tumult fowl
aimed by owl apt to devour prey to rim
bone; but know love, thy live death in staged mimes 
for ovations flood trice, whilst timeless thrives.


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