It was Thomas Hardy Who Spoke

What a profoundly enigmatic melancholy
Shadowed the existential odour of his face
As he slumped down queer
His long, lean, sandy structure 
Wearily rolled powerless against the wall
Lowering his vulnerable grey eyeballs:
He wanted me to look at him with love
Tame his sickness and take him out on a stroll
This I read and heard momentous
While I , doubly down and off colour tilted
My head to throw an anxious glance 
His eyes : dried panes clouded with megrims
It was Thomas Hardy who spoke
Buried within his mystical despair
Imprisoned in the quadrupled body
“I cannot, God. “

-thepenchantwand