Made up of sallow gleaned from my past dreams
Tipping, like smog-soot, into my cup-mould.
Word-beaten and stagnant. In my poems it teems
Spilling from lines I see but pyrite gold.

Tipping like smog-soot into my cup-mould
(That's designed just for words of nectaric glow)
Spilling from lines I see but pyrite gold
Is child-chimney soot debris all that I know?

"That's designed just for words of nectaric glow?"
Juvenile past wraith's dull shedding haunts me
Is child-chimney soot debris all that I know?
Judging from past verse-attempts, I'd agree.

Climbing a nightmare to return with dust
Word beaten and stagnant in my poems it teems.
I can call it experience, but really it's just,
Made up of sallow gleaned from my past dreams.