Allowing light to dance upon the marble rings of a beating tune,
The hole in the tree was made for me and for you.
To warm my shade, a hollow brigade of disdain, pained by the shallow dreams of a young man.  
A young man who’s life may be nothing with, nothing without, or possibly everything as a result of the playful light strand.
Gleaming with joy, woe is he who tastes the bitter butter of false promises.
For promises made to him, by him, for him, lead to gods and goddesses.
Giving life to the tree - taking life.
And with the butter, I take thee to a hot knife.