The Unseen

To Him I bellow whose sorrow it is to torment.
How cruel the fury of frustration when no one thinks that you can.
In drear of domain I ask, "What is this I have lain?"
Hear me, my lad, for the instrument I use is invisible to the masses of what before the eye has lain.
Of help to all lovers of the critical minds.
For in me sings their pain of all of their binds!
As best I can I settle my soul.
As a true and plain as my work I let go.
In accomplishments of many I look at my tale.
In sorrow I weep I work no more.
May fears of mothers, daughters, fathers, sons, sisters, and brothers be laid down to rest.
For no longer is it a sorrowful fate of a spiritual test.
I look to God for all the rest.