In Vain

I have about me those which tell,
man which day it is to be,
those which for man is compelled,
to forget this o God given schene,

disheveled knolls of checked filled trees,
whining to my every nervous glance,
round about, I on my knees,
and they my every inhabitance,

below the mounds, under the rude
confusion, which is but a clear debris,
there exists but one checked nude
month on it which waits for me,

my expiration does it fortell,
its presence haunts my every moment,
each second pounds within my cell,
within which I preside for no attonment,

can cease my eyes, my heart, my mind,
form this which does fortell my death,
o now precious is my every kind,
of function, o my every breath,

closer, closer, to count each day
agony o my heart it flogs!
far is it that time of death?... nay!
for so my thought, my mind it clogs,

the day has come, all checked are gone,
but the lonesome black one stays,
revelation hits theron!
of all my counting, hellish days

o precious was my every breath,
but preciousness was found profain
for it did die, not live on from death,
so ends the tragedy, a life in vain.




precious is my every breth