Promise

The ink is dried, the tip is rust the shaft is strange,like ancient quill but all the same please pardon me I dared forsake sweet poetry Don't seeds spring after darkened life, towards the sun in cleaving zeal and so promise I oh poetry, I'll dash back home,as moth to light The clock has wings,it's chimes are swift, and soon I'll be out of my little jail of squeezing in dull laws and signs, to sire lines of ecstasy!