Death of the poet III

Would that I could pen the oppression of the day,
it might speak volumes, for the ocean, so distant,
flitters away from my visitations perpetually

Eyes of adoring disposition wither and fade,
as I, a man of divine compunction, do meld softly
into my concrete backing, to become sum and composition
of the imprisoning enclave where I sleep

Morality and ruse are little in the way
of pittance for struggles so despondently
fixed on the melancholia of shades
wandering along all the varieties
of gray and spotty green in this city

I'll find a home in the people again,
for now, all is neglible, so issue
death of the poet