Smother the torches Burn down the sun My young boy has died And his ashes blown Stomp on their candles Shatter their statues No fumbling mourn Could bring back my boy No fostered condolence No faltering words Woe to the blacksmith Pounding on the night His burning stars Errupting, errupting Woe, the moon has left And no jewel of old or now Could bring him back tonight No noise of plea, no agony No mumbling thunder In my frail blue body Woe, the room is dark And empty and empty Not a shadow, not a light No one to hold onto No one no one no one There is nothing in me With my young boy gone
27/11/2023
I don't know what I wrote this about. I was mildly out of my good senses