Withheld

As taking the hand of magic knows,
The reality is most morose.
Night takes forms over utmost simplicity
And the light blinded of you carefully.
Dark being the easiest route
Finds itself forming a clot of rot,
Polluting these most high thoughts.
Begging for a hand to reach out to,
Waiting for a hand to force you to move
Stumbling over the cracks in the windows
Of your reality, most morose.

As attempting to speak without moving
Your tongue that is of a thousand jewels sharp,
You expect responses that friendship can bring.
Alas, alas, bruises of self-disappointed hearts
Slowly develop around the disappointment
In the incontrovertible blame, blame permanent.
And instead of using the jewels of wordplay,
You write and hope the others read and say...