Relief

The solitude that I endure can only kill,

Like breathless air that stifles me,

But I find chilly solace in the blood-lit quill

And all my parched anathemas.

The rampant threnodies within my vacant mind

Are dark as mournful raven songs,

I feel their painful machinations churn and grind

The yield of helpless memories.

The thought of you is like a hallowed sun

Arisen from the ashen clouds of life,

A haunting dream from which I cannot run.

You come to me in my soul’s darkest hours

Before my deepest demon’s final strife:

Whether this dreamt-of feeling shall be ours.