How bitter is the midnight
The glow of rose tinted dawn
From which malice draws deeply
And hence the sweet flora that springs tenderly about the terrace
Must be nourished by the black blood that engulfs the moon,
Moon.
How many poems atoned about you, Poe or Shakespeare, deceived.
The truth wanes, shaded in your presence,
Even deceived by your Godlike beauty,
throngs of genius authorship that dispersed time and geography.
There upon the window’s ledge,
Against cold glass, I bow my head with the tenacity of a foolish servant
For your comfort, your cold warmth,
But not a dangling emblem of hope,
Misguided, untold
Of your nightly dispossessions
My life as I know it,
Has run out of your optimistic symbolisms
Your light spills into the blackness of eternal night
Touching only my retina, yet devoid is my mind
The terrors of my life unsubjected
To your invisible metaphors of love
To what object, should my hope cling
The sun shines too brightly, and the stars, 
cloaked in the city’s theatre of fluorescent lights
I lie in bed, curtain unfurled, your
poetic healings, no longer can it
cease me, dejected