9

I cannot think of what to write
The words, they are as haunting wights
Flitting in and out of lights
Ling'ring just beyond my sight.
This hollow cavern in my chest
Where the beating box that held my best
Is merely now a place to rest
For Vice, on his passing by
As if he needs a place to lie
When lies are all he's ever told.
I wonder where my heart was sold
And if I could find it, if I should try
Or if it rightfully stays shy
Aware, so aware, of past behests
That it not betray it's presence, lest
From it's hibernated rest
My conscience should at last alight
And steer this ship to better sights
For what I loath sleeps close at nights
And I cannot turn these wrongs to right.