Poem — Daily Poetry for The Master of Works #23

The heart is a wasteland parched and dry
Where once the waters of emotion flowed,
Long flowed here the passions high
But remains now only veins of a riverbed dead.

The ravines and gorges and channels all
Have grown hollow lairs of strange solitudes,
The grey air festers with an acrid spell
That hunts all hope like a wretched curse.

All songs felled in this graveyard of dreams,
On poignant nights a wailing moon doth remind
Of the happy bloom of a thousand odes
That now lie pale and withered and dust bound.

Into uncaring heavens Thou pourest all splendour
But keepst Thy mind-born like a veritable pauper!

Much too strange is Thy notion of mercy,
Of all Thy traits this Thou must not teach me.