She was empyrean, the ne plus ultra, all would stop and stare.
Malversation of the soul, dazzling with the finesse of a nightmare.
Arcadia is sparse and trysts with death are all too common.
Bliss is chary in all lands from her bithplace to Ammon.
But i'll tarry not on she, lest my listeners all flee,
for i've a tendency to be, quite the adversary.
Vagrant though i wish, being stoic is so dire,
and though it is anguish, of this sting i never tire.
And how sensible it would be, for someone to silence me,
i think you would agree, indeed it's best you see?
I speak not of what you think, this i garuntee.
I sit not on the brink, i walk not in the valley.
Concealed in a quiet copse, no longer of the cadre,
Wondring where it stops, wanting resolve to stay.
Useless is exhorting one who wants never to lend an ear,
same tactics of the enemy, so i am glad you don't adhere.
Clove in twain stand these dreams, as well as my guerdon,
and promised it was not, so no complaint will come.
I stood a witness to those eyes,
two jewels that tell no lies,
who saw all others but my own,
ill-starred to walk alone. |
