Quinn

Your lack of remorse, a needling wire, allows little discourse, no rush to atone, those you have hired, hands like cold stone, bitter morning recourse, fevered by grey light, sorrow run its course, the burdens we own, the offerings of desire, makes demons ride home, there is no concourse, to give ourselves time, friends all withdrawn, shall we sail alone, with this deepening ire, circumnavigate the globe, our souls on fire ?