She roams hills and the verdurous woodlands
and on each eve of the new moon,
she follows the river,
making merry and becoming drunk with mead-

She had wanted to be with bairn,
to have man, woman or child accompany her through the forest,
but she only knew the fawn-

Alas, as she fled her role as royalty
when the King and Queen were born a daughter,
she wished upon a jolly gay key of brass
that they would birth a son.

And so they did,
with good luck and omens,
she would celebrate not with a record of vinyl,
but with the strum of a harp and the song of quail.

The men leave nigh nine,
after sunset brings prism light onto the raindrops,
now dewdrops,
from last night.

The tears free fall
like a waterfall,
or perhaps a broken faucet;
look, it's a tree! A walnut tree!

Well, it's rather stunning, no?
Your feeble attempt at pulchritude is admirable,
I suppose,
I congratulate you on your effort-

But why,
answer me,
why does carnal turn to carnage
with you?

My bare feet lie in the stream,
heels sinking into wet soil;
I read the stars, watch the messages told in constellations,
the poetic and epic story told within the clouds,
in the sky,
a quest of emotion, of sorrow, of joy
all without moving.

I wear my scars like tattoos,
dead skin etched into my arm;
O, please know!
These are signs of pain turned to wisdom!
An exquisite display of an oath, a sword placed on both my shoulders as I am rewarded Grace for my sacrifice-
One cicatrice on my knee
from falling off of my red bicycle;
the other from crawling, climbing out of the utter Hell
that I suffered.

You analyze,
and then you criticize
but that, they despise;
hence your demise.

Your words sound evil,
not at all civil;
alas, you meddle
or you are played like a fiddle.

You don't really try,
but you don't mind if they cry;
you're harsh, but you don't lie,
you are not what meets the eye.

Cloak of black velvet,
coat of white satin;
Your skin is itchy with burlap, tied with twine.
Silk robes,
Cashmere clothes,
your boots trek through the snow, made of leather.