THE CHRONICLER
Here am I, the unknowing chronicler
Poet, raconteur of stories I don't know.
I look into distant rooms, peering in
To its woe and sin, and thereof write within;
The plume I move, the words are Sphinx
That barely rattle the chains of a thousand links.
Tales of which I know not, almost fiction,
Or so this humble thinking thinks.
All philosophy, theory of schism and friction!
Whorish atoms of thought adulterated by ink;
I know not its story, but still I tell
Depending upon Mind's whimsy to speculate,
Shards of blinding darkness! I contemplate
What caprice's of Heaven, what dream is of Hell,
I know naught! Yet I write, I write,
Under emotion's spell, 'neath its treach'rous light.
I write, in the frenzy of spite of unknown men,
Unknown days and unknown things, to see them break again
From the faded voice of their chronicler, just as unknown.