The Presage I am the pineal body of the cosmos; I perambulate the pinnacle of galaxies, And teeter on a parapet of mourning. My perfidity, like the penumbra, eclipses reason... Perspicacity of thought precipitates into abysmal past. I perpetuate pestiferous infection, And climb down To pilfer pious laud. Pique not, nor seek to placate risen pride. A plaintive litany of pining years has dawned.