Not much to say about this one. Decipher if you wish.

Enjoy – or don’t – I don’t mind.


‘Tis not sin which one does gorge
And not despair that letters forge;
Merely shades of dark distress
In the shadow of the mistress.

Tender calls seep through the breach,
To the madness yet unreached,
Through the lock undone, unwhole,
To the void that’s in my ancient soul.

The waiting game gnaws at my bones
And I scream in thousand tones,
But words fall upon deaf ears,
Embracing my cancerous fears.

Yet who am I to dare defy
The very thing that dried my eye?
What sacrifice must I withhold
To cleanse this recurrent cold?

This entry was posted in "Poems".

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