Echoes of transparency
Whims of fate That strike for the surface
But reach it not
Perhaps instance of noble designs
Or the ego of leaden need
Say you which
But never gainsay me
Not I the gentle soul
That craves the soft applause
For the tears of worth
Though dried now for my art
Into a coinage of delusion
And this golden homunculus grins
But he does not smile for me
Not yet,
Though I love him much
But he doth love another
Fickle sprite, mercenary friend
But all is well, it is just pretend
