FOREWORD: Unfortunately, fictionpress won't paste this link for the painting, but it's basically some blokes staring at the World in an egg cup, which glows, which is a bad thing.

THE WAY OF THE WORLD

Surrounding the World, soft-boiled in its Grail,
Thirteen Men sit, and together, look pale.

The First, in a shirt of blue and white checks,
cups in his hands both the sea and its wrecks.

The Second, grasping the table so tight,
stares at the sorrows afflicting the night.

The Third, grimly peering over his head,
garners the spirits of all the Undead.

The Fourth ponders, pensive, placidly stunned
at the sight of the armies, sadly outgunned.

The Fifth, standing tiptoe, speechless, distraught;
dying to cry at the torture World-wrought.

The Sixth, with the Monocle, doubtfully squints,
translating the Word from classic misprints.

The Seventh, so still, looks almost amused,
burdened with madness, and stiffly accused.

The Eight, with much wisdom, keeps his mouth sealed,
anxious to comment on horrors revealed.

The Ninth, wearing goggles, scared of the smog,
hazards a glance at the gathering fog.

The Tenth, startled, silent, staring, intent,
shelters in shadows, increasing descent.

The Guilty Eleventh, author of Mess,
quietly mulls and stares at Success.

The Twelfth, with his jaw badly jarred by disgust,
threatens to speak, but does what everyone must.

The Thirteenth, eyes closed and playing serene,
has yet to witness the World and its scene.

One hand on Twelfth’s shoulder, smiling outright,
he does what he wants to and

(shuts out the Light).