Art of manhood, a heart within,
Thaws the chill to melt the sin.
They call thee knave, so cold and sly,
To lose a damsel, embroidered high.
Mind toxic, devoid of light,
No succor found in darkest night.
Cathartic once, now tocsin loud,
Marked by guile, beneath a shroud.
Always pondering, overzealous,
Art more lovely, temperate, jealous.
The attack fierce, macabre and stark,
In shadows deep, leaves a mark.
Yet within the tempest, calm can grow,
A gentle flame, a softened glow.
Through art and love, the soul repairs,
And finds a path in tender cares.
©Bradley