Thy point drips with the dark amber,

The amber dammed from the duty of man,

Man, who hath spoken, yet been unheard,

Man, who hath held the shield of then and now,

That man, who was crossed by the scythe,

A scythe of sorrow and pain, yet infantile protection,

The pain, of those who found residence in mire.

 

The point drips again, a spell made for other souls,

But yet there is the shield, which may protect its worth,

Worth that is made by a far-crossed throw,

A throw cast of a lover’s trust and loyalty,

The loyalty that brought two apart, yet never back again,

The trust, that holds love through the ticking rhythms,

Again is cast, but cast closely, crossing the casket.

 

What now is said, yet forever left?

Is one subject to the drain of distaste?

That drain, brought on by the stork,

The stork who hath proclaimed his prolonged fate,

The fate that brings him to the bones,

The bones cloaked as such in their darkness,

Darkness, forever lasting in perpetuation?

 

No, never, the amber will not spill in anguish,

That explicit liquid more valued than gold,

Yet so easily relieved as it is yet cast,

But when spouted upon, blocks its path back to irons?

The irons that were started by a maiden in own,

Rejuvenated by a flag flown on its arcs,

Soon closed, but leaving its dent of one.