Mourners of Sunsets

I forgo those whose loss I’d not avenge
Such attempts, so dear is their fruit born,
I, with shackles on these limbs,
Enslaved by a grief, I’d soon forget,
Entreating God to send my soul,
To the depths, where pyres flail about.

I was naked upon the frozen shores,
Cradling a strand of hair, be my own,
Love could neither shed the aching,
When the moon dropped its tears.

I spoke quickly to the sands,
Holding strands torn out,

“I was born with the service to share,
The feeble nature of my love to bare,
The cries of one so loosely scorned,
To He, the God of whom I’m born.”

To next scatter strands on the shore,
Idle, by the ocean’s frothing.

Every meager resolve rose up,
To peel the skin from my heart.

Death parted God from my soul,
To misery and to farewells,
When the shame licked my cheeks clean.

I was a mere cocoon,
Enwrapped by nothing.
Each autumn leaf from above,
Wore the pity of my soul.

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