Wooed and so Forgotten

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When you think of a thing and hold it there, domineering in the sight of the blind?
Or is it simply that you cannot bear to stand when others do thus?
When I have fallen the earth will shake and cause its tremors to be.
But when my sight does fall and dare derides me.
I must then account myself to untimely death.
Subjected to the thoughts and err be-choosing of ones true love.
Or is it the sight of the blood that nay dare behooves me?
I cannot say.
A musk, a lamb and all before a dining of the table of heir wine.
I see no conjuring nor deities of earthling man.
I see the sun and what dare moves me.
I see a girl, I see a boy, with a happiness that is but will not be so.
My musing of eastern door, my mellowing and bellowing out the chorus door.
I am no hero to yonder and behold.
I am man who is a boy and lest I be taken and lest I be ever scorned.
I must therefore inherit myself even unto death, for I am no more.
A dark a dreary tiding, a muse no longer writing.
A broken stool a broken pen, an omen for a sin.
Mystery and misery are they not so eloquent as the divine bearing of the hand?
Or is the hand an instrument of the one who dare beholds it?
Gutter and an eve, a slow and dark new seed.
A girl with a forlorn smile of dreary dark musing of a yester year soon yearning.
A broken angel with a wing half torn.
A broken demon with a heart half born.
I cannot surmise how I will dare be wooed and so forgotten in a tale of woe.
A man and boy no more? Is it so?
Or a lie that I do behold that is brought about by my very own soul?
I speak for no one but my very own, for bleeding that is slow is more painful than one fell blow.
I am no hero to behold.
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For myself.