Dusty, bleak and kind of sore was that room,
Weeping, as if it stood on top of some bard’s tomb.
Walls of glass, drenched till neck in smoke,
and those smoking men draping their agony in an invisible cloak.

The room, where men barely fall short of grace,
A poet walked straight through, holding a mirror to his face.
A poet in a black coat, a poet who had died;
A poet who was...