But no god adorned,
So few but kindred fair,

Alas my honest word is not,
Then cast me aside, alas;

Who could not for love help,
For prey is near, I am whole,

Lest I may be, yet safe bestowed,
Is for not so safe, for lack is born;

Ere born mine earnest hope begone,
But do no harm as more gone ye seek,

I tremble with every step I walk,
So tremble with every step you pass.

Could Fenrir not feel mercy for few?
Though He lives in me, I can give,

Alas mine art is small I cannot paint,
Though mine is large, but detail preferred,

So destroy me now, my soul is little to you,
Hence I shall imbue with mine, for more, to more,

But no strings attached I am slowly fraught,
Shall pluck the strings with claws of mine to play,

With every tug I am but arms and legs ye keep ye move,
For every tug of mine are but inches grown,

Alas my life is utter spent in jest and utter few,
Worry not for He is there but can only give,

Lest I am far from you, but could not sleep,
Sleep now, for He cannot afford at loss in you,

Ere given mine heart is but faint and ill to take,
If’t were shall I not cure the poison to make it so?

No, you cannot. For I am already dead, who cares!
Though I am here, but I cannot help you there,

Cold but sound, as I walk, my heart falls through snow,
Though forgiven, but I cannot give you what you want,

I understand. So let me weep and I shall pass you by,
Though I cannot, for even a boy can weep and lonely pass,

This servant of darkness calls for no dark, no kindred mine,
This servant of darkness calls you near, but cannot find,

Though a wrench in my heart but ill kept I shall bleed,
Bleed again for I shall be more tender in sight of woe,

So help me suffer and suffer more as frail as I become,
So move me here and I shall sign thy life to mine,

Though left in dark I see hopes shattered with utter dread,
But pay heed now for life of thine is but thin as utter thread.

Counterpoint, Pestiferous, Poetry, Romance, Works
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