Elysium Poem by Matthew Holloway

I languish through the day
In morbid dissatisfaction of time
Barely working through motions
How the mind has become
Such a terrible thing to waste
I play on once such thought
More often than any other it seems
A thought of a girl
One who I fancy I may love
Yet abstain from telling her such
I question if I know this fate
How my feelings are but finished
I know this beautiful girl is fair
Gently spoken in her manners
And that I hold nothing for her
A thought of love becomes an irritation
Which labours in my concision
Such is that I languish myself
Hour upon morbid hour
Till the day like my thoughts
Become done and redundant