Please don’t dare to put a posy apon this speaking stone. Nor allow your words to roam. For though the air elsewhere may be much sweeter, Bohemia is dead. Below our feet, on this once so hallowed ground, and behind our eyes, and apon the tips of our tongues, wardrums must beat. They must tear the fear from the groping fingers of the berieft. And they must lend swift wings to our feet. For hell or something more be suckling on this ragged teat.Pussy cat galore, as brazened velour. Red stains on velvet squares stored. Yet this sinful cube has no helpful ghosts.As a bullion cube that makes not but a mulligatawny of the dead. Like fountains flowing what midnight warriors have bled. And dread, terror, and sorrow goes. In xenon footsteps from broken bulbs. The translucent teeth of somethings in heat all apon their geometric means. That sorrow as these within. A deep pain for their sins. A heart attack, though not only those of great age go here. Leaving in infinitely indefineable decibels. Flattened under rubber feet of demonic beasts that beg for flesh of steel, or under the fear of a great flying dream from behind frozen doors. Carrying apon it’s faint and scurrying squeaks, a plague of the middle ages.