In ill wit I find this life unfit,
Bequest of melancholy I admire,
For all left of us is dire,
A folks tale we learn to admire,
Akin to the play that plays in my mind,
Even with me as my possession,With my soul I hold no rhyme
Thus,
as realities prisoner I do not wish to retire,
The earth retraces it's history in satire,
Gods creativity I admire,
But confined to this rugged terrain I contrive,
An illness has warmed me and now in its grasp I lie,
An illness to betray that of which I find noble,
So now I grieve a lesson I don't want to learn.

She harpens the mute,
Which makes them sing their soul,
For within her poetry they find,
Their relentless souls,
Their relentless sorrows,
A whim of time induced fate,
To betray her,
For her to sow to no reap,
Within her bounteous heart such injustice couldn't seep,
So now she spills the nectar of her being,
She spill words of poetry,
She spill tears.