Black mass

In the midst of wither and wane
Upon the mule, a tattered mane
Traipsing o’er the midnight sun
Upon the line, the colours run
Sable leaks from wilting clouds
A viscous rain;  
it seeps.  
It shrouds
It clings to the shame of vested sorrow
It leeches the pulse of your only tomorrow
It weighs you down
It chalks your words
It fleeces desire
And mutes the birds
No songs to sing
No deserts to wander
I’m brittle  
No gleam
I’m left without ponder