27 Sep, 2016 10:33 PM
The moons fading light was met by the suns' slow incline,
Who's fair shine did naught but wither once in decline.
So is mine hearts' pulse only flickers of light divine,
Cast, in turn, into that wearying darkness of nights' malign.
- - -
Whereat can one find thou muse? Whereat must one seek?
Barren fields whom once bore trees, feel no longer roots,
And have so little thereof to speak; numb they fall to sleep.
Through thou windowpane cast thou eye - as do I.
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