For tiny eyes--sweet innocence, thy life is worth this dirge,
Crushing silence masks thy death, tis good that I can purge,
And voice thy tears and voice thy rage of Keene’s demonic scourge.
Palace of jackals, thieves, slaves! Within fine and foul merge.
O holy city of chaos, with devotion thou dost cling
to righteous shadows and remnant; thin, so thin thy string.
Behold! thy angel of light! See his darkened wing!
Blind to children’s ashes, deaf to death knell’s ring.
Keene’s offspring imprisoned, by artful doctrines pent
in Ellen’s Sonless labyrinth, all smiling mirrors bent
in terroristic hubris, to cuddle with torment.
And thus I cry. Alone, I cry my soulful Keene lament.