Thrumming with my every passing thought

Thrumming with my every passing thought,

Nostalgic and infinite love’s embrace

Whose hands cradle this hot iron teapot

Filled by ballet of a broken earl’s grace.

Boil me once to boil me over and out,

This stubborn burning pot can blow no steam.

So long as its chilling hands freeze my doubt,

Yon cruel demons are banished from my dream.

Earth’s greatest men have fallen to its touch

And yet the marathon from it persists

While I take peace in accepting its clutch

Of which neither bone nor body resists.

Tonight I’m to bed like Lady Macbeth

Praying in my sleep that I will meet Death.