Is this a blank page which I see before me,
The blog thought toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee.
I have thee not, and yet I see thee still.
Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible
To writing as to sight? Or art thou but
A blogpost of the mind, a false creation,
Proceeding from the late-night pressèd brain?
I see thee yet, in form as palpable
As this which now I write.
Thou deceived me the way that I was going,
With such inspiration I was to use.
Mine blog is made the fool o' th' other ones done,
Or else worth all the rest. I see thee still,
And on thy screen and laptop gouts of blood,
Which was not so before. There’s no blog here.
It is the bloody press to write which informs
Thus to mine eyes. Now o'er the one half-world
Nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse
The curtained sleep. Witchcraft celebrates
Pale god Poe’s offerings, and withered murder,
Alarmed by his sentinel, the wolf,
Whose howl’s his watch, thus with his stealthy pace,
With deadline’s ravishing strides, towards some design
Moves like a ghost. Thou sure and firm-set earth,
Hear not my words, which way they speak, for fear
my very stories prate of my runamuck,
And take the present offer from the time,
Which now sits on me. Whiles I write, MIE lives.
Words to the heat of reads too bold breath gives.