The Chair of Despair

Like a Sybil, she knows her smoke.

The tir’d glare, the glaring baroque

Of her sacrosanct, dim chamber

Where crowds uncloud the words she spoke.

Like a cigarette’s coil’d camber,

The coal of her heart black amber;

She is by her prophecy burnt

And hers is an enflam’d timbre.

She wishes the things that she weren’t.

But, it is by her it is learnt

That the future is to man as

The water is to the current.