Naught mine own angst, nor the apocalyptic soul
Of the universe in dreams of what may come to pass,
Can e'er the length of heightened lovers' shrivel,
Suppose a penalty to an enclosed room devoid of glass.
The waning beam hath been rediscovered from the veil,
And the somber prophets mimic their very own prophecy;
Possibilities now deemed certainty by seers themselves,
And order or peace proclaims olive branches a - plenty.
Now with the dew of misty time-honored and worn Time
My love feels new and fresh, but Death to me does cling,
Tho, despite his scythe with which he reaps, I'm alive!
He adds insult to injury upon those he the end did bring,
If the world forgets the names of writers whom toiled,
Yet many poets meet critical acclaim & enjoy the spoils.