My heart is dry and tethered,
enthusiasm weathered,
for all my words were severed
by the knife of fault
and wherein inside my vault
is that tumultuous fault
but within my own guilty soul?
My doubt has taken more than its toll,
it's pried from me my only gold
that was the sun to melt the mold
of desire to rid my last hope.
But hope's all plummeted down the hole
the gaping hole my knife of doubt cold had sold
to my helpless soul.
No comments:
Post a Comment