Or whom shall, if not mine last,
That I shall be to sight the last,
With sorrow fought no father bear,
His blood mine own in fated lair,
This flesh that I am nor bound,
Who but I can appeal how found,
The strings of heaven hang me,
A morse code to send me free,
And I shall live to the end as night,
There I am the wall of my fright,
Whether I am happy or not sung,
Then perhaps God can answer long,
Whether heard or not, but knew;
Am I not deserved in lower few,
A sitting worth of little fear,
To bring further entrance near,
That I am sole for purpose great,
Who knew not my path as of late,
So cast me where lot I am lost,
If this fickle hope be long past,
Then give me dopamine to pass,
Lest my life be an utter farce,
Thus, my grilled heart at stake,
No longer shall be art so fake,
But take me where I ought to go,
So yonder here I simply throw,
That knows my faith in bitter strife,
Becomes rife in this diss’ent life.

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Life, Poetry, Works
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