The Sick Man


it is addressed thusly:

An ode.
it reads:
Into the arms of a colorless age
Bleak as the rain makes cold the sun
Wet-bleached out stage by stage
Gradual so the colors won't run
Mix by force all the unlike things
A depression, a grayness borne on wings
Spin until all the thread is spun
Not white but dun the spinning brings

Alas the atmosphere makes us sweat
And gives us chills like a sick man
We are not made ill, and still yet
Our insides make us feel pale and wan
Are we inside out, shall we sleep or wake
None of the treasures we desire to take
We are most blessed - we who ran
- and grew ill of a time diseased and fake.

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