The Frill

Standing at the gates of Hell,
stating that which facts,
the way I am or wish to say,
am feeling in a State of Black.

I wish to carry-on,
with that which Sings the Song.
A Tune with character,
a musical whim, it isn't very long.

A time and place it seems
to bury everything.
Go and visit, place for peace,
a person, place or thing.

Upon your entry in,
do not carry Sin.
For if you're One, pay the Debt,
and wish the best Old Hymn.

I know no other time,
to speak in such a rhyme,
I wish to go & state;
Leave me I'm mistaked.

Taking back my birth from Earth?
A thing I cannot do for you.
So I must say, "I'm not your play."
Wish for something new.

I'm sick from all your words,
the things I cannot tell.
The threats are ill,
and, wishes still,
for my death has caused me so much unrest,
that peaceful must be still.

Bury not for I am a lot.
I need to breath the air, fraught!
Exhaustion takes the till.

Good Luck with all you've done.
I hope for you no one,
maybe the light will be the way and hope shall shine on some.

I've lost internal will.
My choice is not my own.
Secrets kept have made me: Wept.
I want not much, I run.