Black is what the prisons are,
The stagnant vortex of the hours
Swept into totality,
Creeping in the perjured heart,
Bitter in the vulgar rhyme,
Bitter on the walls;
Black is where the devils dance
With time within
The creviced wall.
I Life goes by moving, Up and down a chain of moods Wanting what’s nothing. II My soul is the wind Dashing down fields of Autumn: O, too swift... ENCHANTMENT by Lewis Grandison Alexander
