cleaned out all this junk, and swept my cell
from end to end, an exercise to quell
my anxious roving round this messy room
beneath a dark, apocalyptic doom,
for I’ve made myself some trouble - hell,
I wouldn’t be too shocked to hear the knell
that signals earth’s one last defiant bloom
before all creatures find eternal rest
(me too, I hope, for nothing is my own) -
and so I tidy up as for a guest
right royal, with a fickle faith now grown
old, untended, hardly made to wrest
good fruit at last from words yet newly sown.
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