My psychological progeria ingratiates herself With me daily. Decrepit old-fashioned nerves, they tangle Unceasingly My sojourn, with an awkward gait. Inflexible wickerwork. Sporadic moths of juvenility Deftly play hopscotch among naphthalene balls. I crave the dark only for the freshness that ragged thin Holes from my green nightwear-touched by them- Provide me. Afloat, The corolla of searing shudders deters the analytic bigot, A fearful and sad minion that seeks to obtain my oath Of impenetrable misanthropy As to endlessly feed her sulky moods. I wear her somber stiff corset but defend a crude Pure free glade inside her Stygian woods.