Untitled

Untitled

Perchance thy give thee measure,
Alas only to find thy torment in my soul,
Wicked question speak perilously,
bestowing dreams like a wreched ghost,
Woe, for I find them loathsome,
For they are more vile and foul to me,
It is thy poison yet sweet that shall decieve,
Naught know what fortune it shall bring,
Melancholy, merriment, or vehemence?
Wherefore, I beseech mercy upon this moral

 

Written March 8, 2009