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.