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.