At which to make a witty jest

December 12, 2008
Broken is my fallen spirit
laid upon my chilly chest;
Mangled is my beating heart
buried deeply in my breast;
I wish to only float afar
find a meadow for my rest;
But for now I shall stay
and weep as I do best;
Comfort is in every shadow
my head on each black crest;
to forlorn am I to move
even to swat a sickly pest;
Here I let my eyes grow dry
frail arms open for a guest;
And though I may be alone
I live each day with great zest;
For the lonesome do find much
at which to make a witty jest.

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