For thomas stearns eliot, From timothy scott ennis The Love Song Of The Waste Land Is Conceived In Dulcet Tones That Never Should Be Sung The Fantasy Of Poetry Is Grieved By Ancient Words That Stay Forever Young Eternal Youth Is Promised With The Lies Of Fear Within A Hand Once Filled With Dust I Never Throw That Shit In Open Eyes Relax Your Mind And Read It If You Must The Dead Will Sing Out Loud From Graves Of Stone Their Words May Yet Be Seen By Those Who Hear The Love Of Land Where No One Is Alone Where Even Darkened Words Are Crystal Clear Come Lie With Me, Composed Of god’s Own Grace The Truth Will Lie When Nothing’s Out Of Place.