Shadower of the valley, dying of wisdom--

strung along since seven holes played

the Charmer's flute.

The licentiousness of your poetry, makes

days of worship drag along, inspiring

idleness in all its wickedness.

Leveler of leagues, unlikely elbows falling

together in deeds.

You freeze a whorled dance in the hollowed

trunk of a tree, to wait out the world you

impel.

Forever retiring to the terrible weight of its

foundation, having had the gall to drink its

basest, bitterest secretion.

Poison by any, and no other name...quenchless

blows by the scepter of you in deserted time.

As the truth be hidden in plain sight, so they

to you for salvation.