There is a beauty to be found even under the most dismal of rocks

He stands right as rain on the towers of the chapel of decadence
Light wit and snarky tooth

Bright eyes yet to be bleached by life
His father did not rip out his soul
Its seen in the up curl of his lip

By his age his sire had already drown
Spitting up saltwater on the daily
His insides rotting with regrowth
That was destined to wither and die

But the sons foliage a tree well watered sense sowed
Raident blossoms and deep roots
Stands tall strong against the wind