A Poor Heart

A look toward a dying soul

Scatter in the ruined city of foul

Between the lines, and barricade

Like a madman, a fool

And pray, that locked in a facade.

 

As the banshee came forth

With a call of perished twist

A cry of avenue who lost

The hope that is neist

And exercise that is wasted.

 

Whereupon smoke and lechery

of the man who is tormented.

To sojourn in botchery

To not live, but fantasized

His willingness that's spilled.

 

To the sung of dying tree

That cradle him to free

From his gallows field

 Hope that can't yield

And a promise of vindication

 

Now the time is near the end

There is no extortion to be sent

Where their shame faces, are faint

In the city that they taint

A poor heart,  live in quaint.