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In my own eyes
I cannot see myself again.
Every vision looms but a
coy and treacherous image of she,
born bright by the spirited moon
mad with beauty of the noon
and drunk with a wildness
many a menfolk are forced to knee.

Tranced in her melancholic abyss,
the sure peril of loss
amid the howling thunders
the echoes,
and the deafening silence
I can no longer hear myself.

The soul of my time and space;
of my sense of place and thought
are all but misplaced
into a meaningless naught

Finally, and surely - finally,
I am lost in the sea
of a poisonous passion,
and drowned deep in a dream
perhaps not meant to be

Editing stage: 


i love this. the only word i don't care for is naught. keep in mind i am in the u.s.a. and naught is not a word i often hear. the only line i'm not crazy about is last line first stanza. to me it sounds a little like a line from an old ballad and does not fit with the haunting quality of the rest of the poem. i might put every vision looms
but a coy and treacherous image
of she
born . . .
of course this changes things and you may not want to do that
i would not end a line with the word "a"
i really enjoyed this. the subject matter is right up my alley and i love the images

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