All Of Soul Is Crying Poem by Saint Cynosure

Lying still not yet at sleep,
all of soul is crying.
Somethings burn within so deep,
as darkednees to dying.
Every wish thats ever cast,
each spell of which is prayed.
Flashed both before and seen wence back,
its movement never stayed.
Madness is by dreams alone,
this mint upon my pillow.
Sand by base and also stone,
free beds the weeping willow.
Horroridness not spoken once,
by any mothers grands.
Not only feels the world of blood,
but dirtys up her hands.
To be the one that points this out,
plans me the one for dying.
Lying still not yet asleep,
all of soul is crying.