The Storm Implores My Head to Bow

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The Storm Implores My Head to Bow

But I am not a weeping song

Nothing to lose, even now

Even in a demise so wrong.

Black ropes extend into the sky from the confines of the earth

To smite the grey ferocity above

In response, lightning ignites to persecute all below from birth

All that I witness, I fear and I love.

A lion black as night sits beside me

(Whose golden eyes no sun can parallel)

Glares with absolution above the sea

On this cliff, we peer at a writhing hell.

Feebly so, my cold and grey skin deadens like a fish

These eyes are now neighboring stones

Hair-as bright as all of the stars that prey on a wish

What can stifle the fire in these bones?

There, the lion sped along a stretched black wire

I, on his back, we raced with daring, foolish heart,

Thunderous roars above resound as a choir

But no breach of hell can beckon my love depart.

Such anger proceeds with desperate veracity

To rise with my temper and gnarl like a thorn

I pray "hello, sweet hail" in all audacity

A dangerous height conveys a wondrous scorn.

Swallowed up with the thunder

But I am not dead and gone

In haste, I eloped with such blunder,

Something so fearsome and wrong.

Lost to a province trenched vigorously with ire

I tithed my soul to a dear disgrace by ordinance of a dark dawn

Racing on some sweet mercy of a stretched black wire

Surely, a bleaker morrow may wait, but I am not a weeping song. 

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