Friday, January 13, 2012

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

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