Won't thou to his demand submit?
Alas thou whom I thought a friend.
From others thou accept any silly gift,
And from me only thou accept the wind.

Times, I have tried many and still,
My love in thy heart is under the shade,
Thrive; my heart has not yet to fill,
Moaning, dying, my heart is to fade.

Rising, fighting to survive, my heart is to try,
Phoenix of the ashes is my faded ticker,
Leaving his nest, that bird to cry,
Healing my wounds, thy heart is the maker.
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Won't thou to his demand submit?
Thus my doom thy heart is the one to fit.

Hours from now, a new dawn will begin.
Some will celebrate such an event,
while some condemn the act as a sin.
Not a religious condemnation, not what I meant.
For their celebration is nothing but their doom.
They think that they are running out of the gloom,
but, unwilled, a gloominess place is their path.
For they, like Agamemnon, felt Apollo’s wrath.

Stricken with plague, all nations are alike.
For a year, fear controlled and prevailed,
and respect did exist for that godly strike.
But with a new year, the plague, once hailed,
Ceased to be feared, masques began to fall,
and back to the remaining life, the masked ball.
Grisly becoming, the furrows we plough,
as our bodies are but the seeds we sow.

What can the new year add to her prior’s work?
Fires, wars, or plagues, O! we have seen them all.
Maybe new plagues, in the darkness, lurk,
or maybe this year but just another of god’s scrawl.
tell me my lord, while I kneel to thee with tears,
do thy lab rats deserve these kind of years?
While our hearts hope for thy saving rays,
Books are set to memorize these gloomy days.

To her wishes yes is the response,
Rushing to where she wants me,
To my asking, always the say, I shall see,
Do I to deserve her have no chance?

In my quest, I am her prey to pounce
And to him, she is a buried pearl in damsels sea
Wildly she bit my hand O poor me
On his hand, her lips yet to dance


Ares always he was, Hephaestus was I
Their story in my bed exposed by my net,
Hardly I tried, hopefully doth she regret,

Cursed who chose her, destined to die,
To my gloomy heart hath not she ever fit?
But try if thou dare, she will be thy pit.