Rose of the Wilting Weathered Heart

I'm the composer of
Slow broken verse and dust
Reaching out from inside
Empty hand come to mine

Words and rhyme
Tell-tale signs
Oh bittersweet irony
Fulfil my iron needs

With tight visage
And crimson eye
My trembling hand
Pencil and flies

Slumber wake up
Stupor and cold weather
A shower of seasons
A heart in the gutter

Lines to cross
And at crossroads turn lost
Direction of directed words
Fall dead by the wayside

Composer composes
Of melancholy composed
Raw and dire
Fitful sleep

Decomposed, the prose
Of poetry spoken
Softly morose
Wild, wild rose of the wilting weathered heart