A Wretched Poem Poorly Done

Torpid fumes about me bask

And I shall suffer these wiles no more

But while the tears fall in the ash

I look up and can only adore

This lone bird flying so high

Above these dark clouds that make my tomb

A single dove against blue sky

Here now, but gone too soon

This is that same one

Whose form wrought like the ivory moon

For this one I would come

And follow if it didn't leave so soon

But my fingers are just too short

And my hands are bound by my own rope

So I shall reach for despair and mort

I can reach them, but never that hope