Malicious and inflicting
alas, what Night doth only bless?
So dull and bland,
naturally augmenting one pale and pining pain.
We yearn for a ray which might cast light to the stubborn darkness,
ultimately submitting to what we knew
and our fathers knew was coming.
It is in our nature to deny the shrieking enmity which Night bestows,
with our ever predictable stories which terminate with the same dirge.
I loved her.
And the damning tense in which the line is whimpered only concludes my battle with Night.
Mar 13, 2014
Mar 13, 2014 at 3:29 PM UTC
Malicious and inflicting
alas, what Night doth only bless?
So dull and bland,
naturally augmenting one pale and pining pain.
We yearn for a ray which might cast light to the stubborn darkness,
ultimately submitting to what we knew
and our fathers knew was coming.
It is in our nature to deny the shrieking enmity which Night bestows,
with our ever predictable stories which terminate with the same dirge.
I loved her.
And the damning tense in which the line is whimpered only concludes my battle with Night.
Dirge: mournful short poem
