Eyes grow dim,

Yet fill bright,

with reflections of soul.

Thy shallow harmony,

remains too timid to behold.

Infamy is,

gripped in soft essence.

By the whispering willows,

gregarious presence.

Lifted by treasonous night,

the mind simple partakes flight.

Leave not this smile to him,

Upon this fabled whim,

For tis true to sight,

that his heart is grim,

and cheats of soul by night.

Shed not thy final tear,

For redemption hears not,

thy miseries plight.