All experience is an arch wherethro’
Gleams my unraveling world, whose marginal utility fades
For ever and forever when I move…
*****************
My gray spirit yearns in desire
To follow money like a sinking star,
Beyond the utmost bound of human thought…
******************
This is my son, mine own Telemachus,
To whom I leave billions and billions —
Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil
This labour, by swift rapacity, to make hills
Of cryptocurrency, and thro’ illicit trades,
Subdue them to our private accounts…
*******************
You and I are old;
Old age hath yet the despot and dishonour.
Death closes all: but something ere the end,
Some work of ignoble note, may yet be done…
***********************
It may be that blue waves wash us down:
It may be we shall touch the prison’s bars.
Yet tho’ much is taken, much abides; and tho’
We are not now that evil which in old days
Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of psychotic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.