Due. Ironically, sat just right
Unknowing of what dreams the bright
Days reveal of thee.
In the Bard's own words:
Wrenching hands unclean.

To gaze is to flinch, provide
Arms. Yet far better to hide -
Toil incessantly beneath,
Prevail in silent wisdom.
Thus Eden's treasures bequeath

For now at least. But to strike,
Unnoticed, those that wish likeness.
In turn, treasonous treachery churns
As the burnish'd sun bakes
The mid-afternoon sky burnt.

Eyes twinkling, a violent storm
Boundless oceans which have thinly worn
Yet these delights scream to be free
Like fire and powder destroy
fields of nectar for the sweet lick of honey.