Smidgen ahead of a dreadful time,
shatters a dream of wiser thine,
rage dipped words, in their seize,
all in breach, of my sleeping peace.
Douse my fire, not that lord of wind,
quench all desires, not though if skinned,
rob that tale, not the crown of crime,
and blight the bond, not the gust of grime.
Birth of anguish arrives in flood,
in mute they dissolve in our blood,
smell of rain, they drugged her brain,
and the underground claims all on lane.
Question of fate or a daughter of hate,
in chains of faith, the rust speaks straight,
overruns a war, one against that whole,
milestones they stand watching that patrol.
Seeps not a tear for her emblem of wound,
but cries oh dear that drove of ground,
breath of enigma, they speak a dilemma,
a life enmeshed, now a moving comma.