Should dead trees lay uninked in vain
Death shall come to skin my mane
They’ll drain me dry to paint thin corpses
Bloodstained sheets bounds and warps
What truths I kept locked up and caged
I must not waste another page.
Should Passions press their plans to gain
What pleasures tease them; thrashed by chains
Bruised, disconcerted, they’d cut my tongue
Ring it dry to wipe words unsung
While I pillage and drown my house in rampage
I must not burn engulfed in rage.
That once known pure now lies down ****
And submits its flesh to be tattooed
This holds my heart, unyielding to change
Its fire and fervor forever estranged
With thistles and thorns we nourish our sage
I fear not death, desire, nor age.
