Untitled Poem

Where doth thy angel fly?
Fortune smiles yet speaketh not prophecy
Let not thine ears miss my words
Spoken not by lips of wrath
Nor by foolish tongue
Verily, I speak
And writeth with mine own hand
Thou hast learned a host of thought
Yet thou hast put me asunder
And thou hast strengthened me
All must come to pass
Thou art my past
Thou art my song
Singing unto the wind
Played by musicians of my soul
And thine angel flieth
At the choir’s note


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