From a slow night he thought to wander,
Was all but thoughts his heart to race,
Thus with little only brought to wonder,
And never faster, and never sought at pace,
Cast away a faint shadow of him borrowed,
And never dims to fall, but only besought,
A flesh that breeches a darkling burrowed,
Sang of past and present and future sought,
He’ll think for the paths he took again,
Nor mirror to tell neither a fool to get,
Mighty his heart but slowly goes against,
And slowly against himself failed to reflect,
A fine tune in his head that memory knew,
But gives himself only minutes to esteem,
Yet he was lost in himself for time’s due,
He cools himself in the breeze to redeem,
And never sought advice from instinct own,
Gone were the hours that made him whole.
And never he took the time simply phone,
And never did he know what he was doing,
Then was all silent by low light fading,
But he was forgotten in his self going,
Though no fault of his own him saying.

Life, Nocturnal, Poetry, Works
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