Though you were ambushed by trickery,
You spat on the face of apathy and
Stood daily by your roots, till
Thy labor blossomed with
Good tidings.
A subject you were of ill treatment,
Bouncing from one leech to another
Through channels of stress,
Greeted by streams of anxiety.
Fashioned in obsidian,
You shot your arrow
Wrapped with zeal,
Within the bowels of your target,
By thy hands, foreign to sleep
To claim your sweat,
Your first metal horse
With nostrils of fire.
Ridden she has by endless host
Before thee, filled with years of tales
Eager to rest on the dusty shelf of thy mind,
To keep thee entertained as you ride her body,
Whenever you see fit.
But one wish she requires of thee,
That you melt thy heart in her core;
Thy silver partner in crime.
