A Sadness Poem by James Byron Anthony

In which light are your eyes best illustrated?
In the dull energy-conserving hum fiend?
That dull buzz which highlights make up
And serves to remind that they are beautified by falsities,
Or the sun who with her own natural splendour in mind,
Cuts at the deep blue pools with jealousy and rage?
Does light itself only torment as the succubus draw out emotion,
Puppeteer the strings of adoration and melt the ice heart with a honeyed peer?
What then is left if not light?
In darkness do I find my accolade best received?
As with no illumination, no candles, no lamps, no fires,
The harsh oceans have no effect, nothing,
Existing as commonplace organs in Notre Dame.
But, to live in a world of darkness is to live without the spark,
The astonishment, no more bewildered by those purified tormentors.
My banishment from beauty and as Shakespeare in works,
Byron in intercourse and Wilmot in life:
I down my woe, and fill my glass with misery.