These laurels worn are thorn-ed crown.
Dark tears well and track-ed down
the angel’s faces creased in frown,
amber streaks striking down.

Whatever youthful petals, slain.
Statues weep on’ when come rain.
Chosen not! From this life’s abstain,
shrouded now in clouds of pain.

Whence thunder echo hallow-here,
whispered madnesses, my lone’d peer.
Shouteth not, hope’s fay charioteer!
Sanity be but a rotted tooth veneer.

Let sadnesses might enthrone!
Warm tiding n’er for me been blown.
So turn ‘way sunlights un-shown
And maketh mine meager heart, to stone.