Weak

Abominable Thoughts are these,
To scoff and mock such aquisitions
But is it my fault for suffering?
She would be most pleased if i dreamt

Sometimes when i lie down in her courtyard,
I can hear the trees swaying with discomfort,
And with every raindrop, i grow discontent,
That she would deign to cause this

I can tell the nights want me dead,
The darkness grows bored with my presence,
With her ear-splitting screams persuasive
Incredulous, is she now appealing?

But no rose in her courtyard will ever wilt,
For as long as i keep clawing towards salvation,
I need her perpetuity to guide me,
Whilst his ragged gasps fill the nights wretched ambiguity

I can feel her warmth
She whispers to me,
Even now,
I can still hear her voice,
Over my own...trembling...weeping