untitled poem by Eric H LeGrow

Lest charity cry from the fearful angel,
quell not the urges of want and remorse.
The avid quill and tearful song
are but instruments to our quiet musician.
He sits in darkness to compose our dreams and fantasies,
seeking naught but contentment with us as his muse.
So then it is also true to consider him a fool,
for his joy is sought also from the foul of our brood,
who seek not the melody
but burning of his toil.
Shall our dreams and woes be logs for the blaze?
If so,
such will be the demise of our race
amidst the inferno of wretched agony.


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