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.
To thyself be true my friend