the lonely rose told you its story
frozen and four stories deep
in cold storage cordially speaking
glory to the shielded bore
the man, the sheathed sword
fury and fortitude wills the flurry
the cut deepens as we all stand tall
idly by as we all die
why in the heavens do we not cry
for this word
this wound
this woeful story groans at us
moans with us to the moon
to the sightless stone rule
we must tarry no longer else we fall prey
to the ones that wear grey
the men and folk of wey
leylines and clay
they form the base of our boast
bashful in our wake and toast
corrupt the crest you fight for
at most
the faeries whisper presently put
they know the end game matters not
the rut, the roast of your laurels
the crown and the cot
it ends soon, this will not
be the dearest end of all light
her voice echoes as we fight
the night raids matter not
to lay her head down and sight
the sweet end of all fights
we kite the head of court jester
and might
our long road grinds to a halt
it bleeds dry the pen as i lie
her song is at an end and i fly
to rock and tree
life rejected at my foot
there is no sky
there is no root
there is only eyes and sightless sigh
in the endless cycle of the dull and dry
druidic speak of lullaby
look to the west and you’ll find hell
look to the east and it’s there as well
there is no shade from this star
no bridge to cross, no road to tar
the leaves rest eternal at your feet
my dear infernal sweet
you are done in this world
perhaps there is another
to meet


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