The dawning of an ageless night,
starts with fear of love's delight.
Calling upon a vespertine heart,
soon to fail and fall apart.
Broken tears now laid to rest,
my sorrow tears know what's best.
My ghost shows pity for the lost,
with final dreams the only cost.
Lest I forget the endless sorrow,
Coming close, forsaken morrow;
melancholy of my one desire,
burning sensationally like a fire.
Waking from a lonely slumber,
no dream should I encumber.
My destiny awaits my fate,
feeling no love, just hate.
My ghost awaits the world to see,
one thing on my mind, “Woe is me.”
Woe is me' indeed,
that's not what I should plead.
Even a broken life can be whole,
but only time can heal my soul.
It's time to bank, not stoke the fire
‘Melancholy of my one desire'
For melancholy is a permanent affliction,
or black bile which lies in the constitution.
Do I slumber here,
in my chamber as night draws near?
Alone with my worries, wanting to die,
I sit here watching time pass me by.
What I suffer is dejection or rejection,
a temporary affliction from which I can be set free
from sadness and the plea, ‘Woe is me.'