The Witching Hour
The Witching hour draws nigh, and I stay;
Here, compelled to write, to find words
To express undiscovered thoughts and emotions.
The gentle fingers of wine coax them forth;
That I may examine them at my leisure,
To discern reason and explanation for my
Foolish desire, that we should be one.
I seek the subtle form of verse, to impress;
But beneath, beneath, lies the passion of hope,
That drives me forward, despite your cold charity.
Verse alone is not enough, since you do not read
My scribblings nor hear me speak in rhyme or
Reason, to persuade you to take me in.
What then do I do to have you consider my suit?
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