In forms of sweet music ye now lament,
A cry so loud no ear ere he meant,
Nor eyes to stare lest heart be bled;
I’ll blind myself a thousand nor dread
Sight itself than mine which soars ahead.
But, fate by chance has these shores she led,
But ghastly I hear these beings cast me way,
Nor sorrow in dark phantasm am I bought to sway,
In littered puss that gauge mine eyes to sweat,
These burning tears come hemlock taste so let;
No matter how far your cries can tear me scorn,
No decibels of sound can replace my soul in mourn
With hands I bind, with feet I bind upon this pole,
Nor shall I permit thee Heathen to bound my pole
With lewd advances that mine alone shall this be sought,
Whether free nor enslaved by magic cool so thought
Bore me is here the bitter tale of pain so known,
Now fright my men away and in horny gaze ye thrown
Is in little past my woman who in man art to give,
Now bitterly spoke of this cure I decline to live
And make do with what time I have for time allowed,
So that when the time comes so am I too so loud,
That when whispers befall me all misery and sexed
Then I look back: my journey ahead is not so vexed.

Category:
Life, Poetry, Works
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