Come to this

My muse is an angel with black wings. Black crow on a cold day, sitting on a dirty white picket fence broken gate howling wind broken house broken shutters within.

My confidant is coffin black. Used as a sounding board my dreams come back flat. Sealed and polished, set to put down. No better confidant to be found.

My Confessor is a clown set to take my tears. Of my confessions he makes jokes as much as he hears. His white painted face his round bulbous nose. All the world's a circus as my sins grows.

My Devil Is God. Do you find that odd? He gave me my life, my hopes, my job. Then he took it away in less than a day. No matter how many times I pleaded to pray. Yet he left me here to suffer this way.

My soul is my pen to write again and again. To write on walls, to write on floors, to write on open, and shut tight doors. The pen is mightier than the sword no doubt. But the swords are sharp and planted about.

My heart is ill stricken and flattened with hate. Loss of what I thought dear family friends and mate. Too weak to start over. To hurt to wait. Long for an end from date to date.

No longer to trust to things that I am. To voyage of life a voyage of damned.

~~~~~

Tis the winter of my discontent. Tis the winter of my life is spent. Tis to youth my time has went. Tis to pain my suffering seen. Tis to happiness my laughter my glee. Tis my prayer, set me free!