Quaking Floors

Why was it so the infant eye,
Midst dry summons of nameless sense,
On the ashen face did decide?
Through guarded doors and curtains tense.

Whence all stony figures became!
From phantom wheres and times unfound;
Their dim-lit gazes unsurely framed,
Spill onto the silent surrounds...

And glared all ghastly crimson trails!
Veiled in clouds of incense savour;
When manic chants to metals played,
The heads held to the quaking floors...


Why is it now thus certain I,
Yet return to its banal repeat?
Yet trace thy call to ends of time?
...Plagued by wordless phantasies.