Here before your eyes, I confess
I have failed once more
Where is all this beauty I was looking for?
It was supposed to be on these lines, elegantly
Here I say I have felt short, miserably
Where is the magic sonnet inspired by the secrets of the mist?
Where is that electric poem dedicated to the cold moon?
They all have sacped thru my fingers and died out of nothing… Almost like if they were human
I’m not sad, mourning is such a pure season
Anyway, I’ll grant a rose for this lone vision…
Such is the terrible poison of passion