Yard Globe Sisyphus

I have moonbeams illuminate my dreams
To transmute the midnight mind into gold
Through the alchemy of Morphean streams,
From hell, to hyper-Uranian cold...
And in that Zephyr blast of lofty air
Are all the fevered scenes of dire hope
Amid nightmares that contrast and compare
Memento mori with immortal scope;
That girandole lens the gods would abuse
As the Sauron eye of old doom and gloom
Which the low born man will treat as a muse
Where ratio and proportion will bloom
Beyond the Eden we all thought we knew...
Of pain for most, and pleasure for the few!