This I May, Unto All

The wish upon my mind

is love to bring me life,

to where the light in these stars

were only but figments in my imagination;

to where the sound of trumpets

fill the air around me.
So this I may.

This I may, unto all,

wonder what I have done

to deserve agony such as this.

Everything is cold

because there is no soul

to beckon warmth.

Will no one tell me

why I am at fault?

Will I forevermore bear this pain

because no voice is there

to free me from the shackles

of what I have done?

And here I shall lay.

Forever.

Alone.

Once more.

©LJ

15 May 2014