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Nox besmitten, resting deep In the ever tender arms of sleep I now behold a stranger here His countenance fraught with dour drear A thin-lip scowl his permanent scar His eyes, once limpid, burned to tar A leper's pox on parchment pale This foul vision I surveil What cursed spectre have I seen? This husk of man who lives in dreams? I move my hands to push the thing away But they meet instead, to my dismay A transparent expanse of sheer glassine A window to a fallen dream My fingers brush the cursed plane Tears are born from bitter shame To drown the sound of a monster's cries A looking-glass can tell no lies