This is the death I hath thought.
My love is an image, a mere mockery of life.
Dost thou have pity for mine own wretched strife?
In the midst of thy woe and gripe,
I hath not a single thought that is ripe.
I sway this way and far to that
but for some reason my soul is still flat.
In thy mere image I was made
but in thine own death thy heart is laid.
Not one, no not one mind can comprehend
for no one understands a heart that could not mend.
Thy begging and pleas go unnoticed at least
for this heart is a great, uncaring, abominable feast.
Thy hour approaches when I hath grown thy mark
to Thy will of destruction of my own spirit of hark.
