Under A Sky Of Uncreated Mud

Under a sky of uncreated mud or sunk beneath the accursed streets, my life is added up of cupboard-musty weeks and ring'd about with walls of ugliness: some narrow world of ever-streaming air. My days of azure have forgotten me. Nought stirs, in garret-chambers of my brain, except the squirming brood of miseries older than memory, while, far out of sight behind the dun blind of the rain, my dreams of sun on leaves and waters drip thro' years nor stir the slumbers of some sullen well, beneath whose corpse-fed weeds I too shall sink.