Sun doth shine, oh timbers, to thy dancing arms,
Ye submerge with the waters of the firmament,
Forsooth, in plight troth with warmths of the embers, is it not so?

The path thy shall take wast weaved as thou sprout,
Hands with the sough of the winds,
Hands to haven of serenading wings,
Bloom fair and serene, she say unto thee, she bows for thine.
Be of an iron, I bid thee, so not ye shall fade.

Embraced thee to the soil of the ground as a whisper of life planted by a lone oath to see the light of the heavens,
To shade to the flowers under thee, to give fruits to thy masters. Her visions are only to thee , hence, ye shall spread thy leaves, and whistle with glee.

Hark does she to thy bloom, yet ponders soars and whispers it puzzle she, Deception arth thou to she? A Faux built off melancholic glee adorn of a serpents tounge martyr in uncertainty?

Do thy masters walk upon the time of space of the parchment she there, writ? Or was she beguiled of the songs of the siren in utters to the doom of her souls moaning poetry? Did she sang the chant of a pirate in the storms of seas and drank waters from the grail of the timber that cease to exist?
© DiscipleOfChrist