Approaching midnight
 
     Nameless sorrow
 
          Spreading peacelessness
 
               In immeasurable need
 
 
Mounting confusion
 
     Long in the time of terror
 
          Because even terror
 
               Is a ground for turning

 
The fumes of nonexistence
The smell of being not
The odor of what this is
 
          Perfumes my rooms so hot
 
In sight I tell
Impressions well
 
          In touch, brushes gloom
 
I hear the knell
Of that sad bell
 
          I taste death too soon