brewing storms
dried up souls
crashing waves
they swallow whole
the face of torture
lies not in sin
it lives and feeds
and thrives within
the gruelling roars of tales anew
of goblets full and vows so true
fill silver paths with vines of dread
and give this horse a mournful tread
for tread it must
it has no choice
he wanders helpless
until that voice
of a master fair
and yet not so
when live, you do
you want to go
but when that hallowed call does come
many tremble at the beat of the drum
chill them, does that final song
yet craved they had for it too long
learn this now and set you free
the realms of land and of the deep
do one law solely embody
that law, sweet child, is irony