All poetry, as discriminated from the various paradigms of prosody, is prayer.

What is that unforgettable line?

The tears stream down my cheeks from my unblinking eyes. What makes me weep so? There is nothing saddening here. Perhaps it is liquefied brain.

Was I asleep? Had I slept?

Don’t wait to be hunted to hide, that was always my motto.

Where am I, I don't know, I'll never know, in the silence, in the silence you don't know, you must go on, I can't go on, I'll go on.

Let me go to hell, that's all I ask, and go on cursing them there, and them look down and hear me, that might take some of the shine off their bliss.