Friday, April 3, 2009

In or Out

Relinquish the ravishing umbrage of a long-forgotten woe,
The glory of a wondrous blame is never the first to go,
Imperative, yet beseeching, the windless breath of mine,
Cannot hold a limber lute within a flask refined.

I beg of ye to hand me three of careless empty sketch,
Poisoned sore and evermore is but a twig to fetch,
And gazing supermassive, this walloping eye,
Draws me ever nearer with purposed gravity.

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