Undivided yet the same, my heart is more than two. How can I fix the past a whole when all I am I do? I need to make the pieces one but this defeats my will. If grace be grace, I need its taste, or else I flounder still.
It's eventide; the sun is grim. It sets upon the wake. The shadows mourn for fallen Kings, as phantoms of the rake. The cloven hoof hath trampled here and left but tears of dust. The years it claimed were fleeting gifts, a grant to hold in trust.
In death and age there are secrets hid, a shroud yet veiled by time. And the fleeting years hide a prophet's word learned late by the youthful mind. For the elder eyes but scarce reveal the hope, the pain, the truth. What manner of Fein hath ravaged their prime, and stole the wine of their youth?
Forbidden Fruit, None dare to touch, Nor test, Nor take, Nor taste.
Anger, tears, a boiling cauldron, seething with steam from a waterless pot. Anguish, pain, a reckless defending, festering wound from a weaponless shot.
Visitation oft occurred, thrice too many times. Were it not my troubled soul, death would make it mine. Dreamed a dream, but not a dream, some poor soul's release stole the hope within my heart, gave it some god's peace.
Unquenchable pain, a searing desire, eyes of the lion, twin daggers of fire, the shadows of night, the keepers of sin, the Lion without, the Lamb within.
How can I help you? I can't even reach you. My God, you are drowning, and I can do nothing but gasp for more air. How can I leave you? I barely can see you but the wake of your thrashing keeps me desperately clinging . . . to a hope we can share.