Magical Times Poem by Isaac Williams

I associate Da Vinci with symmetrical human constituents,
as I consider Stravinsky and his octotonic passages,
while I infer my death to be one that will be incredible, yet inevitable,
and from my corpse all will find themselves inseparable.
But I fear not, for my troubles may be portrayed in a toy,
or a small magical fellow with the face of a boy.
However an elf may not suffice to explain my depart,
(but a bleeding heart, yes) of where stand here we,
to a place unknown by all mankind veritably.

I take time of my time to discover something lucid,
as I sit here in conditions which I consider squalid.
But this time is my time, and my time alone,
the only time, I believe, I can call myself at home.

These are magical times indeed, no less may they be referred,
for a gremlin and I agreed, on one's death if such be heard.

---

The sour times of life however prove restless and provocative,
but obligatory as well, may we not be thieved nor pocketed.

Are not these times destructive?
Why no and far from it. They are not in any way counter-productive.
How may you assume? May death be wished upon you!
Well I only sought to ascertain some truth to this issue!

---

My problems are distressing as you may see,
they make my life one empty of glee.
But when I am filled with abasement, and I see only hypocrisy,
and it is only disconsolation that reaps and intoxicates me,
I can see only light, and I can hear no more whines,
for this is the reemergence, of my magical times.