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.