Inhale, exhale; breathe in, ignore. 

The soul exudes spirits once more. 
I walked, I tripped, I fell and rose,

Trapped as I was; people would close. 
A bird of prey, a stalking moth,

Attracted to a deadman’s cloth. 
Arisen from the grave below,

I fell subject to its false glow. 

Poets who dream are lovers blind,

For when the void comes creeping in

And all around in darkness’ grin

The poem’s truth can hardly find,
You will find hope in hopeless rants,

Honour in deeds hard to recall ;

And as you watch the Spirit fall,

And get drawn in by sycophants,
You will recall the lover’s plight,

The one who did fight back the urge,

Drew his sword stout against the Surge

And welcomed Death in his last fight. 


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