poethree:new poems:"thursday's child."

THURSDAYS’ CHILD

I
Seasons by the well of hope,
Times cast in the misfortune of hate,
Died ambition in the lust of things,
Come take me home, sweet seraphs.
II
Come swiftly, here’s my alabaster of woes,
Take them to you, with grim,
How shall i berth in these?
Time come hurriedly, sunrise be more.
III
No more shall i drop, a drop of two,
A taste of joy, to tomorrow and always,
Judgement, I await, guilty I am but why?
If I was my maker, yes.
IV
Born into it, crying more than them,
Seething in a corner, the devil smiles,
Clanging cymbals, heralding more woes,
Louder cries, the bottle is empty.
Here we are now, nothing is smoother,
The union of two, the mystery of misery,
Here we are together in the distance of hate.
V
“I loathe” say it louder,
The father of all more time to woe me,
Out for a morsel, in with the stone,
My misery is sea, all the winds,
Sweetly to unravel them,
I am me take my message home,
Now that the seraph has gone, call me home, by me,
My scale is mine,
My heart is lighter than the feather,
Enter me to Vallhalla.