Of offering and pleading to this unwanted cup.
I will drink from a goblet of my own dark colour;
I’ll find it, I don’t need your help, dear endower.
Armed with lament from the words of the past,
Of words that concern or jealousy cast,
I search in hope for an angel to come,
But they are all just precious, immaculate none.
So I walk my way back to the enchanting cup.
But this time I’ll just watch, while some others come
And sip from the beautiful, unclaimed goblet,
As I smile, still thirsty, at the final call of death.