gothic poetry

i am weary of being bitter and weary of being wise
those on the top say they know you, earth-they are liars
above them all, looking down
world that changes under my hand
come down at dawn from windless hills
some of the hurts you have cured
when i go back to earth
i am fevered
lo! 'tis a gala night
you are clear
i loved a woman
i gazed upon the glorious sky
a thin gray shadow on the edge of thought
why are the things that have no death