WITHER MY SOUL.

Wither my soul wither

In kitchen linked porcelains

In soup bowls in tea cups

In spooned coffees in breaking of bread.

Wither my soul wither

In icy cold buttress of four walled

In ticking of clocks in rippling of sheets

In marooned conscience in cowardly feats.

Wither my soul wither

In pivoted books in ages of lores

In museums and masquerades

In scribblings of dictionaries

In directories of repute.

I have withered, withered too my soul

In heaps of termites

In some sanctified superfluous ways

In rules of conducts in games of delights

With spooned coffee I have marked my brain

Structured insignias of dry rots of the times.