A world within a world,
Past brushing shoulder with present,
Beneath a powder-blue Pantheon dome.
Wilde lounges tragically against his desk,
Looking more each day
Like the picture he hides.
Orwell and Wells
Discuss the room’s circular aspect,
Akin to an Apocalyptic craft,
While Lenin simply glares and tsks
As I enter without a ticket.
“Times have changed,” he says
Into his copy of War and Peace.
Wilde’s nose falls off.
“You can say that again.”
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