Surrender

Hope is but an amputated limb
Fissures oozing putrefied dreams
Ravens scythe through my moonlit field
In the shadows of the bamboo grove,
I write songs of love
That you spit on,
Travail of sorrow that you righteously scorn.
Tepid tears drop in the ashes of a cold fire,
These fissures yet raw, seethe in untold desire