But the darkness would not lift,
For it was the black of life that slowly falls,
Though he hears an echo how slow,
A voice so distant could never repeat its words,
How long could he heed the words?
If not by line but by meaning conveyed so well,
A spartan was he who dared to sleep,
Through day and night would he stir and err to fight,
For life thus he fights for death,
Though creases of life can fade but daren’t turn,
Though true is life’s essence to give,
Pleased to see reason and happiness in all ways,
But ere is sought for comfort but gained,
Whatever their lies and ne truth nor morals,
Shall see another fight at bay,
Who can feel the air so cold and hot to bear,
Whence it gestures for hardy action,
Tears their flesh round and heart thus it rends,
Fill their heads with poison to seep,
But could not fill their hearts with words so beau,
If only there were those to embrace,
Though their hearts can cast doubt ne drooping,
That strikes their tender hearts,
What words they seek is but few wondroud to say,
Though in short is much to keep,
The strings that play his heart so silent to weep,
The words so fraught with love too short,
Much is the strongest that make him man again and again,
Alas could not strike his heart by these,
Casts himself away from all others into darkness and cold,
But, indeed, there was a man who knew to love,
Though so angelic could only esteem to be the demon inside,
Envy is half the air he breathes,
How invaded though resented is but fought as tongues delay,
How oft is lay that casts himself to day,
How much he ought to prove his life from then to here, again;
That makes him man but no less the saint nor wretched,
That hearth can be no space for home to measure,
But breathes is he that can never find home at pace,
With wings so clipped how burnt the eyes long is trapped,
In sight of woe and robbed of reason hence is cast to fear,
Shuns himself from all and engages in more the bloody fights,
Again to prove, again to stoop, again to feel, yet to see,
His existence proven; his existence known; though not so,
Alas, he was but shook to bone where none can esteem,
He’ll go and never return to the shores he swept,
But never will he look back from what road walked,
And never his tears shall flood his coffin so dear,
A sea that alarms him the sound of trees that glide away,
As all seconds become him the minutes so scorn dearly pass,
But better if it were for such pain he suffered to dream,
That he should walk and by nature’s only witness declare:
I never liked painkillers; I live with the pain. The seconds count,
Though awakens with that sleepy ester ye call to resolve,
Is but soothing as he fades into reality as dark as fact,
Then brews himself a memory that soon he fades away.

Life, Poetry, Works
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