Robert Louis Stevenson,1894 Poem by John Lars Zwerenz

I shall go the the wine cellar
And retrieve some cold chablis
In this dreadful chill of winter,
Empassed within a dour ennui.

Outside on the frozen dales,
Aristocratic ladies change their faces
In eerie, haunted, dusky places
As the overwhelming daylight pales.

Yes, the tangerine sun -
It weeps and wails,
Delightful to no one;
Oh, these doleful, maddening tales! -

If I could only find the gate,
I would gladly assassinate
My ghastly imaginations,
Filled with innumerable specters of self hate;
And bitter recriminations.

Perhaps it is too late?
My dear, I am in the basement;
Do come down here,
And witness what I can not prevent.
Every slice of the decaying casement
Has left my breath without a vent -
And all has turned to a fatal malice.
And my face - Is it changed?
Is this the fate heaven has arranged?
O God, is there no solace
For the damned and the deranged! ?

JOHN LARS ZWERENZ