To Subtle and some Wit
Our lash be as gold, yet as dark as they come. God gives us the pain, and we be foul wrecks to take pain to bliss. Wrong be our ways, to the untold hordes; crooked and sinister be our malcontent, yet before us, there is no judgment. Many are the recluse hobbies, both spider and inane. Yet a woman's' scorn, we do not fear. She rages and roars just like the best of us; inspiration to some, and Lover to the rest. Jealous they are of inspirations blessing, a key from most High, there is not question. How to best use the prize, if the prize be so willing. Pen may be the gleam of the night, and by night we write. Yet only by day, with the sun full high, can our Flaming Sword be seen, as clear as Winter, a burning sword, amidst the cold snow; laced with blood.