Ill Filled Room

Gallant is the knight on a steed
that travels on the dark roads
that are overcome with weeds
that have never known a rose.

Here comes the boogeyman ill
filled with impending gloom.
I want to beg plead to him sweet
words written here in this room.

But he listens not to my logic
for his girth is a vast expanse.
No beauty along his path will
ever make him stop to dance.

He is the horror he is the rain
that seeps into my foundation.
That rots and tilts to fall down,
as I speak a sweet salutation.

Am I brave though I hold clear
words of love and warmth close?
The Angel of Death is not now
or ever been swayed by a rose.


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