Fiddle all your pretty things
With guilt, or gilt, or fairy wings.
And speak so bold of where you stand
That all my tears must so offend.
All to wrought or rot in kind.
If only he could cage my mind,
The lord of pride who keeps this hall,
Where feathers of the seraph fall.
So undeserving I should be.
Yet less deserving surely he
Who woke upon this winter's night;
The reason being only spite
Of greater things that fill the fire.
Such unbelief hath lit the pyre.
©2012, MLowe. All Rights Reserved.
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