I constantly speak of love and life _ yet I am dying quick twist of-knife.
And secretly wish my eventual death. Solemn await my last-of-breath.
If it is true that we lie in peaceful slumber within eternal rest.
Then I should toil with all my efforts to be rewarded the elusive bliss.
My time upon this realm, once of need and usefulness _
Has quickly reared its wag of tail _ now in circles I give chase.
Hold back the fear of how it will come; of never feeling the wind again, or the warmth of the noble sun.
The time is nigh the point of one _ the space in time where I’d begun.
Will it be where I’ll no longer yearn, or will it be where I’ll burn?
It calls for me through the eyes I see _ and wait for my return.
Copyright © Niyna DeSangre | Year Posted 2020
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