Yet your soul withers and is dying
Mayhaps you were mistaken in your choice
Regretting the decisions
The words were spoken in anger by a cruel voice
The smug triumphant demeanor
In shame long forsaken and lost
The desolate chill in early winter of the senses
Now comes the metastasis of feared black frost
You have in your hand all you desired
Yet silent in torment, your spirit weeps
Rest comes without in the guise of exhaustion
A weary conscience infected sleep
I say again
You have in your hand all you desired
Pray tell what madness in your mind have you sired
Though with company
Still alone in a cold empty room
‘With a slowly dwindling fire
But at least you have in your hand all you desired
Aug 29, 2017
Aug 29, 2017 at 10:39 AM UTC
Yet your soul withers and is dying
Mayhaps you were mistaken in your choice
Regretting the decisions
The words were spoken in anger by a cruel voice
The smug triumphant demeanor
In shame long forsaken and lost
The desolate chill in early winter of the senses
Now comes the metastasis of feared black frost
You have in your hand all you desired
Yet silent in torment, your spirit weeps
Rest comes without in the guise of exhaustion
A weary conscience infected sleep
I say again
You have in your hand all you desired
Pray tell what madness in your mind have you sired
Though with company
Still alone in a cold empty room
‘With a slowly dwindling fire
But at least you have in your hand all you desired
Request permission to use this poem