To Rise

In creepy crock
And trem’bling mire
Beneath a lake of lye and fire
There lives a lord
Who doth aspire
To roam the realms of
Places higher.

All though his house
Is chill and dry
With n’ere a bed
Befit to lie,
His step is spry
As one would eye
That larks in May
Through fields of rye

He makes his rounds
In midnight towns
Through inky black
That swallows sounds.
His presence in reply
Resounds to cawing
Crows and baying hounds.

He thinks his voice
Has long since died
Starved to death
And dried inside,
He knows his need
Will only feed
The wounds that weep
And eyes that bleed

From wounds
By strains
Sustained from tries
To scale a wall
That climbs
As high as golden gods
Who kiss a sky
Which mortal lips
Are forbade to try.

Behind his cold and
Sundry eyes
Lives hope that shall
Not know reprise.
Shall not be swayed
In dark to fade
From light to black
And then to die.

The hope his soul
Will climb so high
To taste those lips
Of azure sky.
For ere he dies,
He shall devise
To join the choral
Song to Rise.