On T.S. Eliot

I am paralysed
Gesture without motion
Fingers fly in desperate patterns
Like the violent souls
Of the hollow, stuffed men
Bang!
I wear a disguise of crowskin under the swinging tree
With meaningless and solemn whispers
Under distant fading stars
This whimper
The idols of this dead land, this kingdom
Of the damned, ask prayers and kisses
And the touch of the departed hand
I have no eyes, not in this broken kingdom
This meeting place of cactus and conception
The essence of descent falls into the shadow
I am sight without seeing
Thy life, thy kingdom, thy reality of motion
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends

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