It is a quarter 'til ten
and I am alive on the inside,
bowing near edges of a forest
waiting for him who I call my own;
this has all sprouted in my mind,
the one that has been disrupting
my sensitivity.
Where are you little light of mine,
dancing in the near-midnight manner,
can't you lend me a wing
so I may discern if he has
any love.
You know about magic, don't you?
Lest my heart turn on itself,
heal me from my written tragedies.
I wish to put down the dynamic pen
but it overrules lenient emotion.
Hear this bewailing;
come, hasten, to inject the sense.
I want to feel like more than myself,
release the hilt which I am panting under,
take me from my arrest.
