If the mirror doesn't moisten
I shall be glad
For that would mean I am away forever
Beyond the torment
Beyond the reach
Of mortal feelings and morbid craving
When the fingers don't curl
Where the eyes don't blink
In Dante's imagination
Home, as I would call it
For I have lived in one
In your absence
Or maybe in your existing absence
Who would know
I would, but who would I be
For neither in life nor in its absence
Shall I be
In your company
Fitting, ah Poetic Justice
To sleep in the boughs of oblivion