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Myself

Though the moon may mock with its silver light,
and the stars should scoff as they feel their right.
As the sea shall scold my every fault,
so the waves will worry but never halt.
Though the night never knows what day must bring,
yet the dawn does damn this futile thing.
As the sun shines softly on my fears,
so the wind wends wariness for the bygone years.
Though the midday mourns melancholy dreaming,
then rains rules reluctance to grasp the meaning.
As the dusk does doubt the strength of my conviction,
so the cold cuts cowardice for prompt eviction.
Though the dark deems denial should not come first,
so the sun slowly sets to defy its curse.

Such things are my pain, my loss, my hope,
hell bent on destruction, 'money for old rope',
but these are the motives behind my existence,
my will to survive, my drive, my persistence.
Denial is futile, for all of this is myself,
self-confidence, self-doubt, is mere character wealth.
In midst of all this, in this typhoon of confusion,
my feelings for you loom real, no illusion.
For more could there be in the depths I see?
It is the light of you and my yearning for thee.
 
© Nicholas Vosper 2001