i pick shadow and also the gallow be it shallow,
i, though serene meander in about
unabsolute things, fears and dreams ring out and
fade quietly by, and because of unseen things, shrill
blades ring true, their marks bringing about
unending screams in the dark, a thousand or
so plucks on an ever blood soaked harp.
play is a silly thing so easily given up by those
the best at it. for pleasure to me, seems critical
indeed, like petting a steed before a march or breed.
pain it seems exists in me and though i know
more than a common thief, it surges in me constantly
causing uprisings and uncontrolled jitterings and workings
silent hopings of red streams plague my dreams but
i still sing and hope to see crimson showerings
and lovely ruy coverings up of flowery things needed
by me to smile methodically as you look at me
and see a seed planted by me on your inner
most workings and machinery, ive the passwords
needed indeed for erasing your quelchings and delvings
deep. im still like a tree ready to be, to end or start thee.