My elegy births a war
Though it conceived
An idea of hope.
And we wondered,
‘What was beautiful?’ ,
Growing through the loom
Of a departed life.
What was beautiful?
It was hope,
To be free of wants
And profits of our souls.
Tag: self
Day, the Third
Between the borders of my self,
The lips of the departed mourn,
For there my spirit descends,
Taking the eyes of death.
