Finish Jophiel's Poem

Jophiel, in the Home Page categories thread, made a promising start on a poem, but apparently hit writer’s block after a single line: I’ve seen poetry/story/art pages with stuff worth looking at (though most are of the “My soul is a tree stump, alone in the cold winter of lost desire” bent), [snip]. I thought maybe we could come up with some ideas on how to proceed. I’ve added my suggestion below:

My soul is a tree stump, alone in the cold winter of lost desire.
Witnessing the final repose of an expired millennium’s corpse at the dark stroke of midnight.

My soul is a tree stump, alone in the cold winter of lost desire.
Witnessing the final repose of an expired millennium’s corpse at the dark stroke of midnight.
I stand at a crossroads, the path to take not clear.


“Only when he no longer knows what he is doing, does the painter do good
things.” --Edgar Degas

My soul is a tree stump, alone in the cold winter of lost desire.
Witnessing the final repose of an expired millennium’s corpse at the dark stroke of midnight.
I stand at a crossroads, the path to take not clear.
Shall I tend to the corporeal, or beseech the SD to reignite the fire?

My soul is a tree stump, alone in the cold winter of lost desire.
Witnessing the final repose of an expired millennium’s corpse at the dark stroke of midnight.
I stand at a crossroads, the path to take not clear.
Shall I tend to the corporeal, or beseech the SD to reignite the fire?
I seek in vain for identity, and find myself to be only a white rat in history’s vast laboratory.


My soul is a tree stump, alone in the cold winter of lost desire.
Witnessing the final repose of an expired millennium’s corpse at the dark stroke of midnight.
I stand at a crossroads, the path to take not clear.
Shall I tend to the corporeal, or beseech the SD to reignite the fire?
I seek in vain for identity, and find myself to be only a white rat in history’s vast laboratory.
The one who longs for the unwalkable path of desire is torched by incendiary lust


“I’m not dumb. I just have a command of thoroughly useless information.”-- Calvin and Hobbes
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…c.c…c.c…

*My soul is a tree stump,
Alone in the cold winter of lost desire.
Witnessing the final repose
Of an expired millennium’s corpse
At the dark stroke of midnight.

I stand at a crossroads,
The path to take not clear.
Shall I tend to the corporeal,
Or beseech the SD to reignite the fire?

I seek in vain for identity,
And find myself to be only a white rat
In history’s vast laboratory.

The one who longs for the unwalkable path
Of desire is torched by incendiary lust.
Thus consumed by flames and waking
From a self-imposed stupor of bliss -
Gotta clean the sheets again.*

My soul, once a tree-hugger
Through whose veins Life’s sap pumped;
Now a shivering sap
By an intersection, stumped.