Give Me My Books Back

Poison, is that writer's block. Bane, like the possumhaw.
Am I in a sort of hell?
Everything lucid disappears.
Everything is erased by time...
All strong words and letters are gone.
All is alienation.
Is the vine a poison grape to crush?
Yes, imagination still suffices.
There is still a thing, and a thing to say.

I can still write, though the sages are dulled...
Though history is forgotten.
Lady Jane Grey I know not,
Nor whether Elizabeth were in the Tower of London.
Boethius forgets about virtue
And every man is an island unto himself.
Herodotus forgets the reign of Nabonidus:
How Sin was placed on the altar over Samas
And this enraged the people, 
And caused Cyrus to be welcomed by them.
For they did not like that their virgins were to be temple prostitutes.
Where is it? Where did I read it? If not Herodotus? 
Why is Finnegan's Wake changed from gibberish to less gibberish? 
I do not know... is it some sort of torture?
Some sort of trick played on me and no one else?
Come, trains, yet the grape is crushed like they said...
Yet there is no joy.

Please help me, my God is not too far from me.
I cry out in the wilderness, and truth disappears.
It is all gone.
And there is no more fuel for the fire.
Yet I burn... a smoldering flax shall not be quenched
Nor a bruised reed shall break.
Kill the infant; dash them against the stone.
War is necessary I assume, to provide our true history.
That is my thought right now...
Where is the truth?
He is fallen in the street.
Thus, we still have free speech,
Let me kill the metaphorical infant, so I do not kill a real one.
Like our women are celebrating right this very moment in history
The death of three.
It makes me want blood to flow,
Yet I am appeased by it through the Bible's violence.
I kill it in my heart. There it dies,
And no violence proceeds from my hands.
Take away my history, my fantasy,
My dark meditations,
And I do not know...
I may become one of the mobs who burnt down Manhattan.