ꨄ 𝙻𝚒𝚏𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑ꨄ

Irony

When will the glow of mornings-
drown in the reek of moonlight?
When will the songs of Spring-
Dig its grave in Winter's yard?
When will champagnes of Love-
be spilled in swamps of Hatred?
Or shall our tides of hunger-
bathe in Dawn's angelic body,
and quench the stenches of the night?

We shall milk the spring's sweet sunlight,
feasting in its dug up roots,
as our Want unsullies the dimming moonlight,
tarnishing its putrid reign,
for what is midnight to its brethren's light?

And so we fought against,
breaking the tides of darkened drapes,
and welcomed the fields of day.
Yet Spring's embroidered daisies,
wilted away her face,
revealing her rotten corpse.

Long had we longed her glow,
yet her comely composure lost,
her birdsong turned to sound-
Whilst rivers of sweet moonlight-
wept the death of himself,
for he longed her presence again.

Her flourishing wine - her scent,
now wasted to her drunk demeanour.
Blinding flashes of Spring's putrid reek,
had fuelled our Want to dilute her reign.
The longer we longed for moonlight,
the more our Want had wrought,
the longer it wrought our slavery-
to our endless rule of Want.