Timeth of Day

every inkling inked upon
this parchment which thee followeth
prose composed, of blood t’was forged
in mine own drops of sorrow
still, displayed in erred ways
as though t’were born of naught
the truth beholden to beest told
in moments seldom sought
to some seemeth incessant
streams of trite grandiloquence
though none has’t seen such broken dreams
smite mine own countenance
i’ll not recant if thou wouldst grant
thine audience of heart
through such eyes thou dare not encave
from truths these words impart
and though verbose these thoughts
impose upon thee with intent
so doth convey mine own dismay
allaying consequence
if thou protests, i wilt request
with haste beest on thy way
for i’ve not might, to grant
the likes of thee timeth of day

Author: Max Meunier

Feminist. Ailurophile. Musician. Poet. Human.

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