poetry form

when the hours of day are numbered
is there anybody there
melancholy, blue it was
pharaoh, king of egypt's land
since i have felt the sense of death
braided and woven
at dawn, he said
a poet, having taken the bridle off his tongue
why then, must we see?
under the harvest moon
shines the last age, the next with hope is seen
the sky
what do i owe to you
among the mountains i wandered