I am no flower, no poet, no art.
I am extinguished, no longer a tremoring flame to give you succor in the lonely darkness.
I am part of the life you wish to live, a neighbors dream and a coward.
A terrorizing future with existence an Olympic.
The wincing you hear in the dead of the stars is my floundering.
No companion has remedied this longing, but I have consulted a Black Hills worth.
I detest the nectar - and what it has produced.
They say "I'm invaluable" when my emotions spoil me so
I am tired, hear me say with a shallow breath.
The application of shade has deceived me into servitude of agony - In a dystopia with ashy winds, and fatigue packed on a plate, --and a pen I am sired to write with.
No rest can change the dead, and no wakefulness can summon the living.
I am no damsel, that has made a Prince.
I am sincerely tired.
O' spare me of today.
So that I might never come back.
