We dare not meddle with her art,
the words of yon Muse, sharp yet fair.
They carve their mark, they touch the heart
— a shadow’s grace, a whispered air.
Avowed by torchlit trysts, we stand,
entranced by tales in flickering glow.
Her thoughts take root in nettled land,
where elegiac vine rows grow.
Through tangled depths, her whispers weave,
a fearsome elegance revealed.
Her silent vow, we must believe
— a truth within darkness concealed.
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Author:
pontefract (
Offline) - Published: June 24th, 2026 08:36
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 1
Offline)
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