It's done,
I left.
And,
disinherited.
They sworn I'd be left on my own,
So tell me, Good Lords,
Have I ever not been on my own?
I am weary of the living,
Weary of the long, blind struggle;
I am weary of the trusting,
Where my trusts but torments prove;
Weary of the dimly dying
Hopes and dreams all fading.
Weary searching for a meaning
For what good that could be meant;
Discontent with being weary,
Weary with my discontent.
Kindly, benevolent spirit,
Will you give yourself to me?
Send your birds to sing me sonnets?
Blow your winds my cheeks to kiss?
And your mossy rocks to stand for
The memorials of my days bliss?
Or at least tonight,
caress me to rest, in peace.
As for tomorrow,
I shall face, with grace.
The Modern Etiquette 