O how they gaze upon my solemn face
Like autumn on a tree before the shed.
They jest of how my lips are void of grace,
And of how my demons and I would wed.
If then amidst thy shade I find no peace,
Speak not when I seek to abide alone.
O how forlorness truly can be bliss;
(Me and these demons might just build a home.)
There is nothing to give when there is none,
Or when desire is stiffened from regret.
But for these poems would I have been gone,
On exile to a land the dead expect.
And while discomfort refuses to leave,
When I shall do, tell me if you will grieve?