Woe Is Me

Dear, dear self,

I am well aware of the comfort of your current state this well into the night. But, allow me to write in this moonlight before it shifts. I have been burdened. And to sleep upon the plush of quilted pillows, wrapped in silk and cotton, when I, your heart am here, wailing in agony, silently thumping against your chest, in desperate plea of your arousal. Self, do you not deem this an injustice?

My strings have gone stale and the specks on me have darkened and dimmed my sight. I pine for mirages, so seemingly short in hopes, an arms-length away..

Then, again, when one lusts for the farthest of galaxies and falls upon the divinest star closest to earth, his heart is nothing but a carcass, a shattered shard of living room wall art. Nothing, but crumbled and defeated.

I desire nothing but the wetness of your tongue with His name. Nothing but, that your eyes, had they glanced upwards to marvel in the lowest of the seven skies, except that they return thankful in His provision. Had you turned the knob of any door, clasped the handle of any gate, would you remember to proceed in His name?

Self, I implore your mercy. I am stricken with self-pity, that I, your heart cannot escape the bounds that have come to be your ribs and my prison.

I love you very much so, yet my fear for you on the Day when I speak against you equates, if not subdues,  my endearment for you, oh, my self.

My Lord! Woe to me!
Woe is me.