What poetry so spiritless,
on dreary gleams of August,
spread limbs apart on sinking bed
no future dream's so robust
does great deserve this windy wake
from all-night flinging windows,
yet, sheets of warmth were poor
forgotten
like mourning souls of widows;
who took its soul away
from eyes and touch of angels,
who sing no words all night
as they lost sight of mangers;
for thieved their gifted voice
and poetry's benevolence,
now spiritless, poor spiritless
when's poetry been powerless;
but sick of wisdom, feelings too
to worship drunk on senselessness;
but who's stolen yet, whose courage
did read my poems in recklessness;
burned passion, blazed for crime;
what swiftly bandit overdawn
took gentle so the chimes to drown
my poems read so overdrawn;
poor poetry of emptiness,
poor poetry on merely page,
shall you be patient, praying there
poor poetry on your cage;
but sadness rains shall leave
for better days shan't be promised,
shallow is blame poor poetry
when deathly poetry's ain't honest.
