Of what once was a far away dream not
Dreamt but dimly thought-of. My soul intertwined
with illusions of half-hurting joys of long.
Away from pulchritude over a thin ledge
There lies a hopeless multitude of
Short-sighted woes not forsaken but loomed.
Thy secret hours secretly struck its end.
What weighs on my wistful consciousness
Doth resemble that blissful age lost in time,
Ruthlessly carried away by phantoms of old.
The bulk of my being always yearning for being disclosed.