Your call dost beseech my stay,
It dost me blind.
In clamant searching of sight,
I'm lost.
Despite this telescopic lens of mine.
My dreams are frequented by lullabies,
Frequented by nectarous wails.
The songs of pain and sorrowful woes.
The wails of feverish stains.
Upon which thy leave no soulful men,
Upon which thy leave no comfort.
What I doth not see, from the watcher's eye
Is an unintended fate,
Your birth right to nurture endless doom,
To all these loving eyes.
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