I speak from one of many wretched heart,
To triumph o'er a dense melancholy cloud.
Of selfless love and will drifting apart,
Influencing the muse to cry aloud!

The simple thought of fluent fire,
Thus inspire, from mountain peak on high.
Yield not thy thunder of shadowed desire,
Of thy cramped hand and thy poet's sigh.

My good measure of faith and trust,
Hath been forgotten for a long time.
So, now the muse begins to rust,
Reaping few fruits on the branch of rhyme.

Seeking an image to amuse,
My weary heart of disdain.
Let not thy imagination abuse,
Leaving thy poetic voice in vain.

Behold! thy sorrow struck design,
Mingles with thy soul's dark embrace.
Hath bent in favor of a blank line,
Moving my pen with such modest grace.