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Lament of Myself

The moaning lamb perverts this unrelenting midnight
He begs of clemency, and repose,
I am not so wanting; I piece my soul into the black
like some mute owl resting in the shadows of man.

The sidling of dawn longs for me
Its colors drip into my world, they bleed into me raw,
It fills me whole with iced mist and fog’d sky.

I gasp as a starving weed, my desperate roots entwine themselves
I wilt in the isolation, in the presence of that Ethereal light.

My despair, my anguish; they exeunt this lesser vessel
You will hear their absence in the vespers and know me.

Exultant as the warmth graces your cheek,
You will not think of me then —
but surely I will greet you upon the death of the day.

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