Morn breaks through glass windows,
casting aura into chipped plaster
invigorating life into green plants
and the sleeping body of the master.
Shards remain of torn up paper
that grace the floor like little mice
and infect it with evasive memory
as random as the hangman's dice.
White shirt graces the poet's figure
like satin to the lady queen
here lies the sleeping Decimus
half asleep, half dead, in between.