My Muse, my Life

With each passing hour I grow colder still,
how empty foresights my arrival await.
Fleeting warmth my inanimate frill,
in jest mocks at my judgement day.

Yet a wingless angel has me blessed,
upon my weary form in dismay.
My muse, my life! My mind is possessed!
For your sealed wings with my pulses pray.

O please my dearest blame thyself not,
for all sins are but my own cascade.
Then my life would anyways be worth naught,
if darkness be my eventual fate. 

Published in: on 03/02/2017 at 11:30 AM  Leave a Comment  

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