Smoke


Aweary day, night my irony

The room so long felt mist.

Oh my darling pen you bleed my cry,

Sins precede thy save.

The light at end it’s getting closer

Every breath but nothing said.

The breeze, the lips, the face so trance

It’s here, to say itself again

‘Thither art nay sins’; it lay so still

Like a painted picture of a crimson mist.

Submission nay, the shady high,

A rise he never await

The writer wields the thoughts that reek

Oblivious to rage that curse the heavens.

 

 

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