Caprice, to you I owe no favours;
Recklessness, no
fortune:
The promise of succour in all your flavours,
Both ill-timed and opportune,
Has
paled; gone, that flush of youth,
That questions, that counters, that truth
Has not tempered
yet to abandon lies:
The spin of all your tables, the rolls of all your dice.
The madness of sanity, the
illogic of reason -
Such a hold on our senses, tantamount to treason!
But in their
arms I lay my grave,
My
coffin, my ranks, my name:
On surer ground I have not
rested;
And of all my faiths, I have not found,
Better than reason, a thing to be invested
In and of; to it I shall be bound
Forever more.
Forever more.