Grandfather has been
Dead fifteen years. I put on
My mask today, and
Smelled him in my stale
Sweat, like a revenant. Deep
In my glands, lingers
The old man. Coming
For my youth. Vitality.
Aroma of death.
“Rational truth, root of evil and good.
Round me flew the flaming sword;
Round her snowy whirlwinds roar’d,
Freezing her veil, the mundane shell.
I rent the veil where the dead dwell:
When weary man enters his cave,
He meets his Saviour in the grave.
Some find a female garment there,
And some a male, woven with care,
Lest the sexual garments sweet
Should grow a devouring winding sheet.
One dies! alas! the living and dead!
One is slain! and one is fled!
In vain-glory hatcht and nurst,
By double Spectres, self accurst.” William Blake