He lies in the gutter, and no need to worry:
His blood drains down to sewage in the alley,
And below that, I’m sure.
He looks disgusting; his hair matted with blood
And the knife in the side of his head is like a failing crown for him,
While his eyes are still open,
But closing, being closed
By fate itself.

Oh, the mirrors blinding me with reflection,
A diamond flushes dividing white moonbeams into my eyes:
Myself, old and already gone, done by authorities
Let through by the gatekeeper—me!—
And I, still here, standing, there,
Feeling the sharp bleeding of lost hope,
Falling, like dead butterflies,
Down amongst and deep within
Interminable damnation.