For those who wished to hear from I,
had only read my poems hesitantly.
My autumn brain has cured the cold
with spring it blossomed, shroud went flee.
The last it hit me with surge of sadness
I grew in vain, a calamitous rose.
Given the day I discovered my power,
lost my hand where I write this prose.
Though wrought in eldritch nihilism
I sought for rich yet placid home.
After the years of desolation,
have I freed my earthed bones?
Should solace, indulgence, depravity
be enough to reclaim my old wasted?
Had traversed these new potentials,
but felt like soon, I'm mostly faded.
