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. 

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

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