The Lamia's Wood

And 'lo under the moon I rode on,
eyes cast to an unseen night star,
a man crippled and blind in escape,
through dark and drowned wood,
as lonesome wolves did weep for me.

Such a sweetness flows from the pulse,
but such I cast out of forgiving remorse,
or I must suffer an unfinished man,
and what matter's it f I live once more,
an ignominious man and his pain.

But may I extinguish the darkness of soul,
a mirrow of defiled and malicious eyes?
Am I content to live yet again; the folly
that delivers crime or death from birth? Old
embroidery torn still protected, faded adorn?

Forgive myself, me, if I return once more,
to this ancient woman's Wintry blast;
for how in the name of Heaven may I escape,
unto the foil of pain and toil of kind life,
and if only the Dead may be forgiven,
messure my lot when my breast flows blood
and it is a sham of life I am given, for
someday I will, must, return to Her.

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