In what darkness hours do I ponder of incantations
Of harping misfortunes hidden behind a knowledge eye;
Their sorrows are of nocturnal winds blowing the roofs,
Passing in a same dirge in ancient eyes weary and irksome.
I serve inspiration from a bloodline when weary of ink
And bold blue lines;a battered spirit with brazen insolence
Weaved in relations unsound.Epitomizing glory days to make his mark,
A forehead burning in disgrunt then drawing pen to poetic enchantment.
The deformatory walls at decay reflect back a broader pain;
In some enclose walls breeding eternal suffering,
A picturing imagination astounded by myriad sins not to entertain;
The woeful winds shall wake the day tomorrow with new lamenting.
Repose now or take a bath and go to bed,
Shunting the burden`d eyes in hope contained.
