Remnants

Sad Heart, now thou art wither’d from the Sun, What man, or god, will near thee run? Wrought in twist like branches in Tempests' gasp, What Comfort, or Gauze, shall be near to grasp? True ones begotten are the ones now Rotten And the ones now Rotten will never be forgotten They are merely sad remains of assiduous Tears That have been meddl’d with and tatter’d Raw throughout the years And thou, cruel Mind, that sat’st still thru toiling trail of Night; Must dream your broken Dreams; thou’rt a sanely flight! Can thou extinguish passions of Fire, Disease, or Rain? —tho thy distinguish’d influence trains to abstain Thy Remnants brought to debris in thy Empty street, Devour’d by Vultures, their bestow’d beaks entreat Merely are they cleaning an inexhaustible Mess Alas! Leaving thy rudiments of Identity to redress....